


when did the diamonds leave your bones

by anaesthetist



Series: future!verse [1]
Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-12 07:25:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 41,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11157075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anaesthetist/pseuds/anaesthetist
Summary: It should be embarrassing, the way Ashton’s looking at him right now, but it’s much better than the last one he gave him; one of pure hurt, like he could never be forgiven for what he’d done. If Ashton still hates him—if he ever did, and Luke suspects he might have—he’s at the very least not letting it show.“Do you want—something?” Luke asks, gesturing behind himself towards the kitchen, but he’s not entirely sure if that’s what he’s asking.“Can I stay here for a few days?”(or, eighteen months into an indefinite hiatus, Ashton shows up on Luke's doorstep and moves into his spare room.)





	1. heal the hopeless

**Author's Note:**

> again, lots of feelings. some heavier than others. 
> 
> inspired by go to hell, for heaven's sake by bring me the horizon.

The night before Ashton arrives on his doorstep, Luke slices his hand open with a guitar string.

It’s stupid, really. He hasn’t even touched the damn guitar in months, letting it gather dust in the corner of his living-room, nestled between the arm of the couch and the wall. He knocks it over accidentally that afternoon, toes catching on the headstock as he stretches out lazily, shifting his body around to regain some feeling in his thighs. The sound startles him upright, the low droning echoing right through his house and rattling in his ears until the only noise once again comes from the childish cartoons he’s watching on the television.

He’s not entirely sure what possess him to pick up the guitar and sit it on his lap, using the stained t-shirt he wears to wipe away some of the dust from the strings and body. When he’s done, it takes him one brush down the strings to realise that it’s badly out of tune. Lips pursed, he drums his nails along the side of the guitar, contemplating whether he can be bothered to retune it or not. Changing tact, sucking on the inner walls of his cheeks instead, he decides enough is enough; it’s been months since he last picked up a guitar and played it, and that just isn’t right.

Not bothering to search out a tuner, he tunes it by ear. He’s done it before, hundreds of times, but he struggles. The guitar feels foreign in his lap. Unnatural. His hands don’t settle the way they used to. The very thought of forgetting makes his hands jittery as he reaches for the tuning keys, intent on persevering, a dampness already beginning to gather in the palm of his hand.

In truth, Luke feels the string slice into his palm before he hears the whipping sound cut through the air, cracking by his ear. The next thing he knows, his guitar has smacked against the coffee table in his panic, sending a mug crashing to the ground, spilling lukewarm tea over his feet. He swears blindly at something and nothing, wrapping a hand firm around the wrist of his injured hand as he steps over the broken shards, narrowly avoiding further injury.

Gritting his teeth, face scrunched tight, Luke inspects his injury; there’s very little blood, and the cut is clean across his palm, but it stings like a bastard, the pain throbbing with his pulse. It nips so badly that tears threaten to escape from his eyes, but he blinks them away as he stumbles into the kitchen, turns the tap on with a heavy hand and shoves the other underneath it. Head hanging low, greasy strands of hair fall forward into his face, obscuring his vision of his hand as it slowly numbs under the cold water.

Frowning, he thinks maybe it’s a sign.

Of course, Luke’s make-do bandage that he wraps around his palm is the first thing Ashton sees when he opens the door slightly, fingers curled around the door, peering out as though the other man might barge inside.

Maybe before, he might’ve, but things are different now. Everything’s different.

“What happened to your hand?” Ashton says by way of greeting, even before Luke has the opportunity to ask him what the fuck he’s doing here, unannounced, at his house. Ashton always was a bit of a nosey bastard.

“Cut it,” Luke answers with a slight jerk of his shoulder, like it’s nothing.

Ashton doesn’t seem to think so, eyes flicking from Luke’s hand to his eyes, searching for something, anything, that’ll give him away. Nothing is forthcoming. Slowly, he nods, hands slipping into the back pockets of his jeans. “Can I come in?” he asks.

For lack of an excuse, Luke nods. “Suppose,” he says, revealing more of himself to Ashton, tucking his hair behind one ear and letting the other half hide his face as he steps aside.

It’s only as Ashton bends down that Luke notices the travel bag by his feet. He grabs it firmly, straightens back up and smiles when he passes Luke, giving him a small pat on the shoulder as he goes. It’s gentle, but Luke feels knocked off-kilter; it’s the first physical human contact he’s had in weeks.

Shutting the door, he walks slowly to where Ashton has taken residence on his couch. He looks awkward, perched on the very edge of the seat, eyes scanning the mess Luke has yet to clean up. His fingers reach down and graze the floor, collecting together some of the larger fragments of Luke’s former mug and setting them up on the table. In Luke’s defence, however, he did soak up most of the spilt tea, although the now dry remnants of kitchen roll lay scattered across the coffee table.

Hovering by the couch, Luke lifts his hand to scratch at his scalp, but drops it again quickly, acutely aware of the sweat stains by his underarms. Not that the rest of his t-shirt is in much better nick, or that Ashton hasn’t seen him in some right horrendous states, he feels embarrassed. “I was just going to take a shower,” he says, though he had no such intentions. In fact, the very thought is draining.

Ashton shifts back, throws his arms over the back of the couch. “I can wait,” he tells him.

Of course he can.

What Ashton might want from him consumes most of Luke’s thoughts as he stares into the spray of the shower, so hot that already the mirror above the sink is beginning to fog from the heat. Moving through the cloud of steam, he yanks off his t-shirt and peels down his boxer-briefs, wondering how it compares to the thick mist that seems to have settled heavy in his mind these days. No comparison, he decides, stepping into the bathtub and reaching out his good hand to check the temperature of the water.

Ashton wouldn’t be here for no reason, Luke settles on by the time he’s scrubbed his scalp and skin raw. They’ve never really had one of _those_ relationships, despite being best-friends. They were bandmates before they were best-friends, which, Luke supposes might have something to do with it. Before that, even, Luke was just the kid Ashton felt sorry for in the foyer of the cinema. A lot has changed since then, but sometimes Luke still catches Ashton looking at him like he did that day. Maybe he’s never really changed in Ashton’s eyes.

He's wearing that same look of sympathy as Luke pads back into the living-room, his t-shirt and shorts sticking to the patches of skin he can’t be bothered to dry properly, his hair still dripping down his back. He grabs a band off the side table to tie it back. It should be embarrassing, the way Ashton’s looking at him right now, but it’s much better than the last one he gave him; one of pure hurt, like he could never be forgiven for what he’d done. If Ashton still hates him—if he ever did, and Luke suspects he might have—he’s at the very least not letting it show.

“Do you want—something?” Luke asks, gesturing behind himself towards the kitchen, but he’s not entirely sure if that’s what he’s asking.

“Can I stay here for a few days?”

Trust Ashton to just…come out with it.

Hand slipping over his damp neck, Luke _ohs_ and _ums_ under Ashton’s expectant gaze.

“Please?” he adds.

Sighing, Luke nods. “I guess so,” he says, diverting his eyes to the bandage on his hand as Ashton’s face breaks out into a grin.

“Cheers, mate, I owe you one.”

 _You really don’t_ , Luke thinks, eventually sitting himself down on the couch. He curls up, playing with his toes as Ashton excuses himself to use the bathroom. With shoulders hunched and stray strands of wet hair sticking to the side of his face, he thinks about how this is going to work, how he’s going to share his space for the first time since the last of his girlfriends packed up and left him. Nails pressing into the cuticles of his toe nails, a shiver racing down his spine, he wonders how he’s ever going to cope again.

“You okay?” Ashton asks on his return, casual. He drops back onto the couch this time, fingers linking at the back of his head.

“Yeah. Totally fine, man.” Luke forces out a smile as he drags his fingers up his leg to scratch at his shin. “Just a bit tired, is all,” he says, and it’s not a lie. He is tired. For whatever reason, he hasn’t been sleeping too well, but he’s not about to delve into any details with Ashton. Despite the warmth of the other man’s smile, Luke knows he’s on very thin ice. “You? It’s—been a while.”

“Yeah, ‘s been ages,” Ashton agrees, moving his arms back, spreading them across the back of the couch. He doesn’t mention whose fault that is. “Everything’s good. Bit hectic getting this side project together but no complaints. Me and Cal are writing at the moment, actually.”

Jealousy makes the blood in Luke’s veins go icy. He cracks his neck, moving to curl tighter in on himself. Only the thought of Michael’s exclusion from this side project tempers Luke’s emotions before anything alarming can reach his features. The moment he had first heard about Ashton and Calum’s plans to form another band—in one of those cheesy, glossy magazines that seemed to fuel half of Los Angeles no less—Luke had been overcome by a sense of betrayal. Michael’s excitement and support via Twitter had been equally as tough to swallow. He himself hadn’t commented on it, hasn’t said a word to this day. He knows it’s not fair, but it doesn’t sit well with him.

“Cool.”

“Yeah,” Ashton says, grinning. “I can’t wait to get on the road again. I miss it so much, man, you wouldn’t believe it.”

Luke can’t. He picks at his bandage, fraying the edge of the gauze where it stops against his knuckles. Right now, touring sounds like the worst idea in the world. “Should be fun,” he mutters for lack of a better response.

“Is that hurting you?”

Luke stops playing with his bandage and slides his hand between his thighs, trapping it, cutting off the circulation. Maybe if he hides it, Ashton won’t take anymore notice. “I’ll live.”

“What happened?”

No such luck.

Luke recites the story of the guitar and the string and mug shattering on the floor, watching Ashton’s face soften with the realisation that there was nothing more sinister behind it. It was an accident. A very Luke-like accident. To emphasize his point, Luke stretches out a leg and kicks the guitar that lies abandoned on the ground, one string snapped loose.

Ashton takes it, inspects it. “You should probably restring it.”

“Probably.”

Ashton’s eyes are wide, his eyebrows raised. With a significant amount more delicacy than Luke could possibly muster, he places the guitar to the side, resting up on the couch cushion. For the longest moment, Luke thinks he’s going to lean forward, clasp his hands and give Luke one of those chats, but when his mouth moves, his lips quirk into another smile.

“It’s nice to see you, Luke,” he says, catching him off guard.

Luke can’t quite bring himself to say it back.

*

While Luke wouldn’t call that first night enjoyable, it’s not exactly awful having Ashton staying over. He quickly imposes himself on Luke’s stagnant environment, cleaning up the mess from his little accident, tearing through his cupboards and telling Luke off when he can’t find anything edible. There is stuff to eat, Luke grouses beneath his breath, just nothing to Ashton’s ridiculous, health-conscious standards. He wants to be in good shape for when he goes touring again, he says, and maybe Luke once could’ve sympathised, but he doesn’t particularly care anymore. 

He doesn’t care about much these days. He doesn’t know why.

“Do you want to go out somewhere to eat?” Ashton asks him, leaning his hip on the counter he’s just taken the liberty of clearing of an assortment of music magazines. Judging by the tone of his voice, he’s not holding out much hope. “I’ll pay.”

He’s right to do so.

“Not really,” Luke answers, scratching at his beard. He’s perched up on a seat by the breakfast bar, his toes barely skimming the floor at a stretch. It’s a nice feeling, he thinks. Not many positions allow him to stretch his legs and kick his feet childishly. He doesn’t even realise he’s doing exactly that until Ashton comes forward, leaning on his elbows, looking at him like he’s gone completely mad. He stops. “What?”

“Nothing,” Ashton says, his chin moving on his upturned palm. “Do you want to order something instead? Pizza, maybe?”

Luke narrows his eyes. “I thought you didn’t want anything unhealthy?”

Ashton shrugs, turning to search for Luke’s takeaway menus. “I’ll just get one with lots of vegetables and shit on it.”

In the end, this is exactly what happens, and together they eat pizza on the middle of the floor of Luke’s living-room, two boxes of pizza separating them but the sole of Luke’s foot still managing to brush against Ashton’s knee. So starved of contact, his body seems attracted to Ashton’s like a magnet, or maybe it’s like that sort of pull that keeps the earth in orbit around the sun. Ashton could be some worldly sun at the centre of the universe, he thinks, and he could be a far-off supernova, burning out brightly and with a bang before collapsing in on itself, taking everything with it. 

Naturally, that night he finds it hard to sleep. Fingers curling over his bloated stomach, he tries for hours to sleep, only to be awoken by a nightmare he can never remember. He gives up sometime in the early hours of the morning and ends up downstairs, sitting up on the window seat with his temple against the cool window and his knees tucked to his chest, a cushion wedged between. Despite the inky blackness, he keeps his gaze turned towards the window, searching out shapes and the blinking lights of airplanes cutting through the sky, each time guessing where it might take him.

Sometimes he thinks about going home. Sometimes he thinks about moving back in with his parents for a while, dropping some of the responsibilities he’s never really been able to handle on his own. That would be an admission of defeat, though; that would mean LA had beaten him, run him out with his tail between his legs. Luke’s too stubborn to accept that. He’ll stay here until it kills him, just to prove a point. Pride. That’s the only thing keeping him here. He’s got too much pride.

Too caught in his thoughts, in another overhead plane bound for New York this time, Luke doesn’t hear Ashton’s footsteps carry through the house. He does however hear his name being called, soft and quiet, as Ashton approaches him, not wanting to scare him off.

“Can’t sleep?” Ashton asks, sitting up on the window seat, mirroring Luke, his cold toes touching against Luke’s for a split-second. Ashton sees him nod through the darkness. “Me neither.” He pauses for a moment, looking outside. “Man, I hope you don’t make your mum sleep on that bed when she visits; it’s rough as fuck.”

“Sorry,” Luke says, genuinely. He’s been made to sleep on that bed before. He _knows_. “Should’ve offered you my bed.”

Ashton laughs, shifting slightly and making the seat creak. “Nah, I know what you do on that.”

Luke laughs with Ashton, trying to keep his voice down out of habit. While on tour, late-night conversations with Ashton in the bunks became Luke’s therapy; perhaps it was a little unfair to unload everything onto Ashton in the early hours, but Ashton never turned him away. Ashton always listened. Right until the very end, until he told him the last thing he ever wanted to hear, Ashton always listened.

“You okay?” Ashton asks.

Luke shrugs though he’s uncertain if Ashton can see him. “I think so.”

Ashton hums low in his throat. “How’s the hand?”

Truthfully, Luke’s skin feels oddly tight, like if he stretched his hand too wide, the wound would burst open. “A little sore,” is what he settles on, and Ashton responds to this with another hum. “Do you want me to get you a spare sheet so you can sleep on the couch?”

“Nah, it’s alright. It’s only for a couple of days, anyway.”

Luke sits up a little, trying his hardest to make out Ashton’s face in the dark. “Are you sure?” he asks.

“I’m sure,” he replies, stretching out his leg a little until the sole of his foot rests flat against the bottom of Luke’s shin. It feels weird—cold and weird, but he doesn’t tell Ashton to move. “Thanks again for letting me stay, by the way, I know it’s a bit—out of nowhere.”

“It’s cool, Ash. Really.”

The next noise that escapes Ashton is a yawn that he unsuccessfully tries to muffle with the back of his hand. Luke tells him he should go to bed, and he does, his yawns becoming more frequent after a brief denial of how tired he actually is. He says goodnight to Luke, but not before giving his knee a short, firm squeeze, reiterating once again that he’s thankful Luke allowed him to stay. With that, he wonders away into the darkness of Luke’s living-room, the soft shuffle of his feet becoming quieter and quieter until Luke is most certainly on his own again.

Luke stays downstairs for a little while longer, skin and hair sticking to the cold glass of the window pane he leans on. He barely moves an inch until he feels his head begin to droop, the jerk of realisation each time sending his head smacking into the glass. “Fuck,” he hisses, touching his temple with the pads of his fingers, pressing them down just to make sure that it really does hurt. Waging a war with his own motivation, carefully he swings his feet off the seat and stumbles back to his bedroom, pausing only briefly to hear the soft, loud snores coming from his spare room.

*

Luke’s only been up for ten minutes, but he’s already beginning to remember why he could never stand Ashton in the morning. He’s too lively, too happy. Needless to say, Luke has launched many a pillow in Ashton’s direction over the years, and it’s only for a lack of a pillow that he doesn’t aim one right at Ashton’s head.

Ashton is stood in his kitchen, dressed in a pair of sweatpants and nothing else, devouring a cup of coffee in a mug Luke doesn’t ever remember owning. His hair is all dishevelled from a rough night’s sleep, but Luke imagines it would look a lot worse if it was still as long as it used to be. He talks loud and spritely, telling Luke of his plans to go to the studio that day and do some writing. “Do you want to come?” he asks.

Luke, who has almost sunk into the counter, his nose skimming the surface, jolts upwards at the question, unprepared with an excuse not to go. “I don’t know,” he mutters lamely, pushing himself up onto his elbows. He chews on the cuticle of his thumb. “I was gonna—I was gonna go shopping today. For food,” he says, which is a lie.

It seems to satisfy Ashton, though.

“Sure, sure, no worries. I was just asking. Can you pick up some minced beef? And chilli paste? In fact, why don’t I come with you? I was going to make homemade burgers. My treat.”

Blinking, Luke thinks he might’ve gone dumb. He nods jerkily. “Now?” he asks.

Ashton is grinning. “Once we’re washed and dressed, obviously. Let me call Cal, tell him I’ll meet up with him tomorrow instead.”

Luke is close to protesting, even has a hand reached out, fingers brushing the crook of Ashton’s elbow, but whatever he’s about to say dies in his mouth. He recoils, slinking back into his seat, hand dropped heavy on the counter. Under Ashton’s quirked eyebrows, he smiles tightly, nodding. “Cool,” he mumbles quietly, averting his gaze.

It’s the effort that bothers Luke more than anything. It shouldn’t take so much effort to have breakfast, have a shower, brush his teeth and get dressed—but it does. By the time Luke is locking the front door behind him, Ashton already stood by his car, he wants to go back inside, lie on the couch and vegetate. He doesn’t particularly want Ashton calling for him to get a move on, even though there’s no rush.

“Will you chill out,” Luke grumps, unlocking his car and yanking open the door. “It’s not like Whole Foods is going anywhere.”

“Someone’s grumpy,” Ashton goads, getting in and buckling his seatbelt.

Luke tucks his hair behind his ears. “Yeah, well, you’d be too if you had to put up with you.”

“It’s been less than a day, Huke Lemmings.”

Luke shifts his bum in his seat, his old, stupid nickname ringing in his ears. He turns to Ashton, not quite looking him in the eye, but not shying away from him either. The way they splintered, Ashton shouldn’t be calling Luke by any silly little nicknames. Luke lost that right a long time ago.

“Are you okay? Do you want me to drive?” Ashton asks, eyes flicking between Luke and the steering wheel.

“I’m fine,” Luke says, voice quiet.

“I don’t mind—”

“Jesus Christ, Ashton!” Luke snaps, smacking his good hand on the wheel. “I’m _fine_.”

Ashton looks a little taken aback, but he’s quick to regain his composure. “Still not a morning person,” he says in place of what he really wants to say. Luke’s outbursts are usually dealt with something between a shoulder to cry on or tough love or both, but he doesn’t seem willing to offer Luke either. “Are you sure you can drive with your hand like that?”

“I’m sure,” Luke replies, voice lower but still laced with venom.

What is a ten-minute drive lasts for an eternity or two, filled only by some pop nonsense Luke keeps playing on the radio. Smart enough to know better, Ashton doesn’t take a chance fiddling with the radio, instead choosing to keep his elbow up on the window frame, chin resting in his palm as he watches LA blur around him. Only when they reach the car park does Ashton turn to face Luke, peering at him closely, looking for any sign that he might go off again.

The car journey is bad, and the slow trek around the supermarket isn’t much better. Luke wants to go home. He wants nothing more to drop the basket in his hand and run right out the door, leaving Ashton behind like he did before. He wants nothing more than to get in his car and drive home, hide himself from the world and never crawl back out from beneath his bedsheets. He wants to go home, and Ashton knows it.

“Give that here,” Ashton says gently, brushing his fingers over Luke’s as he takes the basket from him. “Let’s go pay.”

It’s too much mercy than Luke deserves, but he follows Ashton like it’s his default nature and lets him drive them back to his place, complaining feebly of a stiffness in his hand. Stuck in the passenger’s seat, Luke flexes his hand on his lap, head down, hair in his face. His breath hitches at a pain in his palm, and he feels Ashton’s eyes on him, curious and concerned. This time, they leave the radio off.

It’s not even lunchtime when they get back.

“I take it you don’t want to—do anything?” Ashton asks, sliding a carton of milk into the inner door of the fridge.

Luke is sitting up on the counter, heels banging against cupboard doors. He shrugs, playing with his bandage.

“Why don’t we restring your guitar?”

Luke doesn’t want to. “Not got any strings,” he says. It’s not the truth and it’s not a lie; he honestly doesn’t know if he’s got strings kicking around anywhere. He should, but he probably doesn’t.

“None?”

Luke pushes his bottom lip out to accompany his shrug this time.

“You must have more somewhere then? Guitars, I mean,” Ashton says. “We could jam,” he suggests.

Luke curls his hands into the edge of the counter, knuckles going white beneath his skin. “I don’t really feel like _jamming_ , Ash.” Pushing himself off the counter, Luke goes straight past Ashton. “Go meet up with Calum if you want. I’m sure you’re busy.”

To Luke’s surprise, Ashton takes him up on his suggestion. “I’ll come back and make dinner, alright?” he says before he leaves, shoving his phone into his back pocket. Luke’s car keys are tight in his other hand. “I’ll text you when I’m leaving the studio.”

Watching Ashton head towards the door, Luke is struck by the realisation that he doesn’t want Ashton to leave. He opens his mouth, but doesn’t ask him to stay because he’s too proud to admit that he might just need him again.

*

While Ashton is gone, Luke takes a nap on the couch, and he feels slightly better when he wakes up to Ashton’s face hovering over his, a hand firm on his shoulder, shaking him gently. He squeezes his eyes shut a few times before sitting up, his back and neck stiff, slowly adjusting to the bright open space around him. From where he sits, he watches Ashton saunter back over to the kitchen, and it’s only then that he realises that there are burgers waiting for them on the breakfast bar. Having skipped lunch, his stomach growls out hungrily.

“You actually made these?” Luke asks, sliding his bum onto the seat beside Ashton.

Ashton makes a small noise of offence. “Don’t sound so surprised—plus, you haven’t tasted them yet,” he says, then giggles.

As it turns out, Ashton’s burgers _are_ as good as they smell, and Luke wolfs his down so quickly that he ends up with a pain in his stomach. Ashton finds this hilarious, the bastard, and threatens to upload pictures of Luke crumpled up on the couch, clutching at his stomach with his eyebrows drawn. Luckily, he doesn’t post any of the pictures he takes, acutely aware of the rumours that would surface if any fans or gossip mags caught wind of Luke Hemmings and Ashton Irwin hanging out with each other again. Honestly, he’s surprised nothing has come out of their trip to the supermarket earlier today.

With nothing better to do, they spend the rest of the evening watching television. It’s boring, mostly, but it distracts them for a while. They sit together on the couch this time, Luke still curled up on his side, his feet resting on Ashton’s thighs. Despite the many months apart, despite all the drama, they still can’t keep out of each other’s personal space. Luke is especially thankful, his yearning for touch sated with one of Ashton’s large hands wrapped mindlessly around one of his ankles.

“How’s Calum?” Luke asks Ashton, paying no attention to the advert currently playing on the tele.

“Yeah, he’s all good. Wrote some killer riffs today,” Ashton tells him, caressing Luke’s heel with his thumb.

“Killer riffs,” Luke mocks. He wiggles his toes in Ashton’s lap, distracting himself from overthinking. “Do you—do you think he misses me?”

For a long moment, Ashton is quiet. His hands still on Luke’s ankles. “Of course he does,” Ashton answers. “Michael misses you, too. Said so the last time we hung out.”

Whether Ashton is being truthful or not, Luke doesn’t care. The tension in his gut subsides and he stops chewing on the walls of his mouth. Twisting around onto his back, he sits up, feet flat against Ashton’s thighs. He curls his toes into the rough denim of Ashton’s jeans. “And you?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t miss you, mate.”

Ashton’s never been one for cuddles, but Luke can’t help himself from lurching forward and throwing his arms around his neck. It feels like some sort of redemption. Finally he can take some solace in the fact that maybe he hasn’t pushed them away so far to ever come back. Ashton came back to him, and he’s the one Luke hurt most of all.

“’S alright, buddy,” Ashton is saying, patting Luke’s back. He gives Luke a small kiss on the temple. “Everything’ll be alright.”

For the first time in a long time, Luke thinks maybe Ashton is right. Maybe everything will be alright.

*

That night, Luke can’t sleep, but only because he’s not tired after his nap during the day. He’s not the only one, as it turns out, the unmistakable sound of a disgruntled Ashton tossing and turning in the bedroom just down the hall. He fiddles for his phone for a while, only managing to let it smack against his nose once, waiting to hear if Ashton’s restlessness would subside. When it doesn’t, he grunts as he kicks his sheets from his body and stumbles out of bed, gracefully readjusting himself in his boxers as he goes.

When he reaches the spare room, he pushes the door open enough to stick his head in. As he expected, Ashton is shifting around uncomfortably, the bedsprings squealing beneath him as he rolls onto his back with a huff. “Ashton?” he says, immediately gaining his attention. Even in the near-dark, the light of the moon streaming in through the open blinds, Luke can see Ashton sit up clearly.

“Did I wake you?” Ashton asks in a mumble, rubbing at his eyes.

“No, no,” Luke answers, resting his head on the doorframe. “Do you want to—do you want to sleep with me?” Luke asks, then corrects: “Sleep beside me. In my bed. It’s comfier.”

 The moment it takes for Ashton to answer is entirely for show. “Sounds good.”

“Feels good,” Luke says, automatic, before he can stop himself.

“Jesus Christ, Hemmings,” Ashton laughs as he leans to grab a pillow and slide out of bed. “That was _bad_.”

In Luke’s room, Ashton cautiously steps his way around a plethora of dirty clothes to drop himself down onto Luke’s bed. He spreads himself out easily, eyes trained on Luke as he climbs in beside him. It’s been a long time since they’ve shared a bed. They used to do it a lot—all four of them curled up in a hotel bed, their once knobbly knees knocking against each other as they laughed their way through film after film, only dispersing when the first of them fell asleep. In the beginning, it was always Luke, body fatigued from all the growing and jumping about he was doing, and by the time he’d grown into himself, grown up properly, they didn’t really want to share a bed with each other anymore. None of them ever admitted to wanting to, anyway.

Luke certainly wouldn’t have minded.

“Better?” Luke asks, laying down on his side, facing Ashton.

Ashton tucks an arm behind his head, cheek resting on the swell of his bicep. “Much. Goodnight, Luke.”

Nuzzling into his pillow, a small smile creeps across Luke’s features. “Night-night.”

In the morning, Luke awakens to Ashton being much closer than he had been before. Not quite entwined, Luke’s bare knees brush up against Ashton’s thigh as he curls into himself, his head a mere foot away from the shoulder Ashton is gracefully drooling onto. Luke scrunches up his face at the sight and lifts a heavy hand to gently shake Ashton awake.

Ashton grumbles in his sleep, head jerking away from Luke’s touch. “Since when do you wake up before me?” he mutters, throwing out an arm to fend Luke off.

“You must’ve needed a good sleep,” Luke says, sitting up, stretching his spine. He rubs his neck and looks down to where Ashton is slowly but surely coming-to, moving his hands to pick the sleep from his eyes. “Want breakfast?”

Breakfast is nothing but cereal, but Ashton enjoys his Cheerios as he slurps up the milk, standing while Luke sits, talking about something and nothing all at the same time. Only when the chat turns to Ashton going to the studio does Luke begin to feel himself deflate, the muted joy he’d woken up with slowly ebbing away and leaving him with the same harrowing hollowness that has plagued him for months.

“Any plans for today?” Ashton asks after emerging downstairs after his shower. Where the dullness has consumed Luke, the brightness radiates from Ashton. He’s feeling excited, creative; the taste at the back of Luke’s mouth is bitter.

Luke shakes his head.

“Why don’t I pick up some strings when I’m out? We’ll get that guitar fixed up.”

Eyebrows furrowed and breath steady, Luke slouches further into the couch, playing with the small necklace that rests in the centre of his chest. “Sure. Whatever.” He pretends not to hear the exasperated sigh that leaves Ashton.

*

The days bleed together, and Luke lives in constant limbo between the unease of Ashton walking out the front door and the calmness that descends around him as Ashton slips wordlessly into bed beside him, his presence tangible even if his body isn’t. Tempering the tightness in his chest as he wallows alone one afternoon, Luke tries to remember the nothingness of before; the long, boring days of feeling nothing but emptiness laced with apathy. He tries to remember the void. He tries to remember the way back to it.

Artificial though the numbness may be, the simple solution, he concludes, is alcohol. Copious amounts of it.

Luke dresses without washing, pausing briefly to scroll through the contacts of people on his phone that aren’t or never really were his friends. He chews mournfully on the inner walls of his cheeks, sat in his underwear, perching on the edge of his bed. No one calls him anymore. No one invites him places. No one cares. Swiping his thumb across the screen, he wonders why he ever expected anyone to follow him from the light he so desperately wanted to hide from.

Leaving behind no indication of his impending whereabouts for Ashton to find, Luke heads out and finds himself in a mass throng of anonymous bodies, the heat of overhead lights and the throb of bass pounding into his skull. It’s a pleasant, almost nostalgic feeling as he crosses the dancefloor to head to the bar, the sweat of strangers already beginning to set on his skin. He doesn’t mind; the press of a stranger’s body to his does not elicit the same sensation as a brush of Ashton’s fingers against his, does not make his insides churn until he has to catch himself, legs uneasy.

Glass of whisky in hand, Luke shakes the very thought of Ashton.

By his fifth beer, Luke has shaken the very thought of himself and most of his inhibitions.

Stumbling, the lack of space doesn’t quite give Luke the room to embarrass himself fully as he catches the eye of a pretty girl. In a haze, she is the most gorgeous human being Luke has ever seen, her black hair falling as far as the swell of her perfect ass and her brown eyes the shape of almonds. She dances facing Luke, her arms circling over his shoulders, her fingers twisted in the damp hair at the base of his neck. She moves fluid, easy; Luke wants to lean down and kiss her, but he doesn’t.

Once upon a time, he wore the number of girls he could sleep with as some sort of medal. All he had wanted to do was gloat, the feeling and attention so unfamiliar, so difficult to resist. Now—now it’s just a stick to beat him with, a shameful reminder of a warped mentality. He’s changed, but nobody wants to know. He’s fucked it up, and in some twisted retaliation he’s gone out of his way to prove them right.

Proving people right is always easier than proving them wrong.

The buzz of his phone in his jeans causes Luke to jerk away from the girl. He takes it out, staring down at her apologetically as he backs away to the edge of the dancefloor, eventually bumping into the wall at the far side of the club.

No one calls him.

Ashton calls him.

Squinting down at the screen, Luke rejects the call.

He regrets it the moment he does it, suddenly light in the head, his stomach beginning to turn. Wiping the sweat from his brow with the cuff of his sleeve, Luke puffs out his cheeks and slumps heavy against the wall, cool through the heavy denim of his jacket. With a slight, nauseous shake to his limbs, he brings his phone to his face, praying for Ashton to call him again. To try again. Give him another chance to pick up. “Please, Ash,” he whines to himself. He sounds in pain. His face contorts.

Swallowing his pride with the bile rising in his throat, Luke pushes himself from the wall and struggles back through the crowd of bodies until he makes it to the exit. Stepping outside, the cool air is a shock to his system, propelling him forwards and around into the alleyway. Hands fisted and scrapping against the wall, one tightly holding his phone, Luke throws up onto the dirt and grime beneath him, chest heaving and nose running as he does.

He’s crying. Hot tears streak down his cheeks. He wants Ashton.

With shaky fingers, he calls him. He stops just short of begging for him.

“What’ve you done, Luke,” is what Ashton says when he finds him, dressed in something Luke guesses is supposed to be inconspicuous. Ashton’s got new music coming out soon; he could probably do without this getting out. It’s only when Ashton kneels in front of him, taking his sunglasses off as he does, that Luke is confronted with _that_ look again. He shakes his head, pitying. “Did you get what you wanted?” he asks.

It could mean a thousand things, but the answer is the same: “No,” Luke hiccups, denim cuffs wiping away the hot tears on his cheeks. He sniffs, lifting his eyes. “No.”

Ashton reaches out and touches his hair. His knuckles graze Luke’s cheeks, his shoulder, the crook of his elbow. “Come on,” he says, offering out a hand to get him up. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

Propped upright by Ashton, Luke looks every inch the tragic rockstar. He only finds the capacity to be properly embarrassed by it when he wakes up the next morning, mouth dry, tongue heavy, head splitting. The sight of Ashton in his kitchen is a hard one to stomach.

“You look like shit,” Ashton says.

Luke scowls. “So do you and you’re not even hungover,” he says, walking slowly to the sink to poor himself a glass of water. He takes one gulp before emptying the rest down the drain. Not daring to turn back around, Luke licks his top lip and presses his palms into the edge of the counter, feeling the cool marble against the flaring tightness of his palm. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For last night,” he clarifies. “I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have called you. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t mention it,” Ashton says, nonchalant. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Plucking up the courage, Luke turns to face him. His lips move but no words form, so he nods, giving Ashton the smallest of smiles. 

*

Too hungover to do anything, Luke has spent his entire day grumbling and moaning on the couch, the dull throb in his temples persisting long after the painkillers have failed to kick in. The only time he falls deathly silent is when Ashton excuses himself to call Calum and cancel their studio session. Luke strains to hear, Ashton’s voice hushed against Calum’s annoyance. Arms wrapped around himself, Luke finds himself caught between a weird cross of guilt and satisfaction, but he makes sure to look grateful in the face when Ashton returns, sheepish and muttering how Calum doesn’t mind.

Luke knows Calum better than anyone. He will mind. Greatly. Maybe he’ll come around and try to punch Luke in the face for ruining everything for him again. This time with no Michael to hold him back.

“Where did you sleep last night?” Luke asks, fingers skimming over the slightly raised skin where his cut has closed. Ashton tells him to cover it up if he’s going to keep picking at it. “I’m not,” Luke whines indignantly, turning his body slightly away from Ashton where he sits on the couch.

Ashton is perched on the other side of the couch, feet tucked beneath him, the mirror image of Luke himself. “In the spare room,” he says, eyes on the television, remote tight in his hand. He settles on a documentary about stars. “I thought you might be restless. Didn’t want an elbow in the face, y’know?”

Luke doesn’t remember how he slept, which is probably a good thing. He’s glad he didn’t wake up to Ashton not being there.

“You can come back to my room,” Luke says, slipping down the couch a little, resting his head on the arm and stretching out his legs. His bare toes brush Ashton’s socked ones, the heat from his body pleasant. “If you want to.”

Ashton does.

Luke goes up to bed before Ashton does, if only to mess around on his laptop for a little while. After a quick skim over Twitter, Luke finds himself on Youtube, watching videos of his younger self sitting alone in the basement of his parents’ house. A lump forming steadily in his throat, he thinks about what it would have been like if he’d never posted those videos, if he’d let the shyness get the better of him. He remembers Aleisha’s persistence and encouragement as his finger wobbled over the upload button, and a whole new bout of nostalgia restricts his airway, making him choke on nothing. 

“You alright, mate?”

Luke snaps his head up and his laptop closed. He forces a smile and a nod.

Ashton hovers by the door a moment longer before crossing the room to Luke’s bed and sliding in.

It hasn’t escaped Luke that Ashton has long since overstayed the few days he’d initially asked to, but as he shuffles a little closer to him than normal, he can’t bring himself to bring the subject up. While once the thought of Ashton sharing his space spooked him into his shell, the very thought of him leaving again has Luke reaching out for him, burying his face in the juncture between his shoulder and neck. To his surprise, Ashton rests an arm around him.

“You can tell me if anything’s the matter, Luke,” Ashton says, voice gentle and hand patting his spine.

 _I can’t do this anymore_ rings around in Luke’s mind, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut and tighten a hand in the fabric of the t-shirt Ashton wears to bed. He must feel it, because the motion of Ashton’s hand against his spine changes from a delicate pat to a soothing rub, lowering slightly to the very small of his back. The sharp, _can’t or don’t want to_ that echoes a moment later sends him cowering even further into Ashton’s body.

Falling asleep in each other’s embrace is sweaty and awkward, the skin of their thighs sticking and ripping apart at the slightest movement. Luke huffs, rolling onto his side, not expecting Ashton follow and press flat up against his back. He sags back as Ashton’s hand comes to rest on his hip, thumb moving in the same, comforting pattern.

“Don’t think I’m always gonna let you be the little spoon,” Ashton jokes quietly, squeezing Luke’s hip before pressing his nose into the base of his neck.

Luke laughs airily, humming in response. He falls asleep wondering when the next time will be.

They wake up like this, but only because Luke has managed to trap one of Ashton’s arms between his body and his bicep, the fingers of Ashton’s hand discoloured from a lack of blood flow but resting easily over his chest. Luke lifts his arm to let Ashton pull it free with a groan, mumbling something about not being about to feel anything as he flops onto his back beside Luke.

Luke stays facing away from Ashton, his thighs pressed together tightly, face red.

He’s hard.

“I’ll be down in a bit,” he tells Ashton when he hears the other man move. “Stick the kettle on and I’ll—I’ll be down in a bit.”

Waiting until Ashton is safely downstairs, Luke shifts onto his back and reaches into his boxers, shuddering out a sigh of relief at finally being able to get a hand on himself, teeth sunk into his bottom lip. The first few strokes are dry and uncomfortable, so he reluctantly kicks off the bedsheets and tugs off his underwear, letting his cock jerk free as the waistband grazes past it.

Keeping his eyes on the dark head of his cock, he spits into his hand and returns it to his cock, his other hand reaching slightly lower, alternating between cupping gently and squeezing firmly at his balls. He doesn’t quite have the self-restraint to thrust up into the tight grip of his hand, too busy wriggling at the sensation crawling around in his lower abdomen, causing his back to curve off the bed and his shoulders to tense against the pillow beneath him.

Not like Ashton’s never heard him get off before, he keeps his groaning choked and quiet, eyebrows knitted together tightly in the centre of his brow as he squirms back against the bed, teeth grinding together. He tries to simultaneously concentrate on keeping quiet and the blissful drag of his foreskin against the head of his cock, the friction sending him into a heated delirium.

“Fuck,” he breathes, twisting his wrist, spreading his legs wider and stabbing his hips upwards. He turns his head, teeth grazing against his shoulder, ready to sink into the bony flesh when he comes in a desperate attempt to silence himself.

It’s all in vain in the end, an embarrassingly high-pitched moan escaping the back of his throat before he can catch it. Eyes shut, he comes over his hands, down his knuckles, semen clinging to the coarse hair of his pubes, hot like lava, little splashes landing on his quivering stomach. “Shit,” he mutters, turning his hand to wipe his come on his cock before wrapping his hand back around it, the slick sound of it obscene and making his stomach clench.

He lets his cock go when it begins to become uncomfortable, resting his sticky hand on his hip and letting his soft cock slump down, the head just brushing against his thigh. Only when his breathing returns to a steady rhythm does he move, making a note to change the sheets as he changes his boxers, praying Ashton won’t notice.

Walking downstairs, he cringes at the cold sweat making his neck itch against his hair and a similar dampness gathering at his underarms. He should probably shower, but he can’t be bothered.

“You look a bit flushed,” Ashton says to him, leaning forward on the counter, chin cradled in his upturned palms.

Luke can’t tell if he knows or not.

“It’s getting warmer,” Luke mutters as he climbs up onto a stool, and it’s not a lie.

*

Indeed, the weather is so nice that it drags Luke out of the house and into his garden. He spends most of his day without Ashton lying on his back on the grass, sunglasses perched atop of his nose and his golden hair fanned out beneath him. It’s peaceful for the most part, the occasional car engine or squawking bird pulling him back from a bizarre daydream where he finds himself in the wintery Arctic, in pursuit of something he cannot name.

Ashton arrives back in the mid evening, just as the light reaching Luke’s garden is beginning to dim and the sunburnt skin on the bridge of his nose and the tops of his cheeks is beginning to tingle uncomfortably. Without needing an invitation, Ashton joins him, lying with his hands tucked behind his head and his legs crossed at the ankles. Somewhat hiding his face from the sun, Luke rolls over onto his stomach, perching himself up on his forearms and elbows. For a little while neither of them say anything, Ashton’s muscles melting into the grass as Luke plucks it from the earth, fingers and nails staining green.

“Started recording some drum tracks for the album today,” Ashton says out of the blue.

“Oh,” Luke says, more to show he’s listening that out of any sort of surprise. In all honesty, he’s not that interested in what Ashton and Calum are doing, his jealousy replaced by apathy. He’d thought Ashton had caught on to his disinterested, but seemingly not.

Ashton grunts suddenly and rolls up onto his stomach and elbows, his shoulder bumping against Luke’s as he comes to a halt. Luke’s eyes drop to where their arms brushes against each other, Ashton’s skin and arm hair much darker than his own. Flicking his gaze up, he jumps slightly when he finds Ashton staring straight back at him, his face mere inches away.

Luke clears his throat, ducking his face away. “How’d it go?” he asks.

Ashton shrugs. “Good, I think.”

For the first time in a long time, Ashton sounds unsure. It makes Luke frown; if Ashton isn’t sure about something, then how can anyone be?

“You think?”

“It’s just—different, I guess. Everything’s different. It’s weird not having you and Michael there,” he admits, joining Luke on his assault of the grass. He picks a few pieces from the ground before starting to rip them apart. “Just being in there is weird. I even miss listening to you playing the same fucking riff for an hour.”

Luke stares down at his open palm, imagining the feel and weight of his guitar in it. It stiffens sorely at the thought. “It wasn’t the _same_ riff,” he mutters huffily.

Ashton giggles under his breath, making Luke roll his eyes.

“We’ve got auditions coming up pretty soon, too. For touring members and that,” Ashton tells him, abandoning the grass in favour of resting his cheek on the heel of his palm, head tilted towards Luke, vision slightly obscured by the sun.

“Gonna ask me to audition?” Luke jokes, picking dirt from between his nails.

“I don’t know many better guitarists,” Ashton says, knocking his shoulder against Luke again.

This time, Luke is silent. His palm is still open below him, his fingers flexing over imaginary strings. He wonders whether to tell Ashton that he thinks he’s lost his ability, lost his spark ever since the split, but he decides Ashton’s wouldn’t believe him. Nobody forgets how to play the guitar after fifteen years of playing it. Nobody falls out of love with their instrument that quickly. He certainly doesn’t think Ashton would believe him if he said he thought fate was keeping him from playing his guitar. _Look what happened the last time_ , he would say, offering up his once injured palm as proof, plagued by a phantom pain.

“I won’t tell Michael you said that,” he ends up saying, now playing with his cuticles.

Another stretch of silence descends, thickening the air around them even as light breeze begins to pick up, gently rustling the bushes and trees and cooling the skin of Luke’s face that continues to boil underneath the surface. He reaches up awkwardly, elbow sunk into the ground, and skims his fingers over his nose, checking if it’s sore to the touch. It’s alright, he decides, though it’ll likely begin to peel during the night. Nothing he can’t handle.

Out of the corner of his eye, Luke watches Ashton shift suddenly, body stretched out in order to pick a stray daisy from the grass. The little flower is dead and limp in Ashton’s large hands, but all the delicate little petals remain, the head a bright yellow.

Without a word, Ashton tucks the daisy into Luke’s hair. His fingertips gently graze Luke’s burnt cheek as he moves away.

Luke screws up his face. “What was that for?”

Ashton shrugs, dropping down onto his side, his lower lip protruding. “Thought it’d look nice.”

Luke rolls over and sits up, bringing his knees to his chest. His fingers twitch to take the flower out of his hair, but he leaves it, because Ashton gave it to him—and Luke thinks the absolute world of Ashton. Even after all this time, that’s never changed.

*

The next morning Luke sits downstairs and watches the sun rise, perched up on the window seat with his knees hugged close to his chest. An uncomfortable tightness across his features had awoken him, his skin threatening to burst and crack with every quirk and twist of his face. A quick check in the bathroom had confirmed his prediction from the day before; the skin around his face had broken and begun to flake away, the sight of it making his stomach turn a fraction.

In the bathroom he had also noticed the daisy still limply tangled in his hair, tragically caught between the greasy strands. Now it twirls between his thumb and forefinger, most of the petals gone, the last ones holding on for dear life. He thinks about ending the misery, plucking the petals one by one, conscious of the knowledge that until Ashton had plucked it from the ground, it had been a living being just like him, and deserved that last shred of dignity. He decides against it, though, letting it wilt on its own.

He’s soon abandons the daisy, clumsily shoving it back into his hair, giving his full attention to the purple and orange hue spread prettily across the horizon. It’s so fascinating that he almost doesn’t notice Ashton sleepily stumbling down the stairs and collapsing beside him.

“You’re up early,” he mumbles.

“So are you.”

Luke watches Ashton tilt his head forwards, edge of his forehead pressing flat against the glass. His eyes are barely open, blinking and watering against the light of the outside world and the force of the yawn that forces his entire face to screw up. He’s shirtless, the swell of his biceps prominent as he crosses his hands tightly over his chest, letting his nails scratch over an itch on his elbow. The lyricist in Luke thinks he’s glowing, set alight by the sun of the new morning.

“Do you want to do something today?” Ashton asks.

Luke sucks on the insides of his cheeks, thinking. He does _want_ to do something, thinks he’ll go mad if he doesn’t. Whether he can be _bothered_ to do anything is the real question.

“We could go to the beach,” Ashton suggests, craning his neck and peering skywards out the window. “Looks like it’s going to be nice again today.”

It’s once again for a lack of a better excuse that Luke finds himself nodding, the idea of going to the beach not an entirely unpleasant one. His agreement, despite lacking enthusiasm, sparks Ashton into life, a triumphant smile spreading across his face as he begins to spiel off beaches along the coast—none of them quite like back home, but beautiful all the same, he says, pushing himself up and promising Luke breakfast and coffee.

Luke showers and dresses in the meantime, still towelling at his hair as he follows the smell of coffee like a man possessed. Ashton is grinning when he reaches the kitchen, trying not to look Luke in the eye like he’s the butt of some joke he’s not aware of.

“What’s up with you?” Luke grouses, chucking his towel on the counter as he takes a seat, eyes narrowed on Ashton.

“Nothing,” Ashton says a tad too quickly as he pours milk into Luke’s coffee. As he passes the mug over the counter, however, he can’t hold it in. “It’s just—you were singing. In the shower. It’s nice to hear you sing again.”

Despite the heat, Luke wraps his hand around his mug, thumb skimming over the rim. He’s not embarrassed, because Luke knows he’s a good singer despite some of his earlier reservations, but the fact Ashton seems so overjoyed is slightly unnerving. With nothing to say, he nods and distracts himself with his coffee, taking a sip and trying to hide the fact that it burns his tongue and mouth.

*

Long before the official statement is released by their record company, there’s a lot of speculation that something has gone horribly amiss for 5 Seconds of Summer, but most of it starts when they pull out of a string of interviews and television appearances at the end of the year. They keep quiet on it, just as they’re told, their pasts already muddied by a string of unsuccessful attempts at damage control. Only Michael posts about it, tweeting vague nonsense about the importance of family and wanting to spend time with them that everyone sees right through.

It’s less of a shock, more of an inevitability when it comes. No one really believes the ‘wanting to pursue independent projects’ drivel that fills the statement, and from there the conspiracy theories start. Some are wild and unfounded—rumours of addictions and rehab between rifts over girls and money—and some are simply untrue. None of them want to pursue independent projects. None of them are too set in their ways to fall out over artistic differences. None of them want to kick back and enjoy the fruits of their labour just yet.

The simple truth is this: Luke couldn’t do it anymore.

Luke curls his toes into the sand. Ashton is leaning back on his elbows beside him, the sun beating down on the exposed skin of his upper body. After a slightly elongated trip born out of Ashton’s insistence that they take the scenic route, they’d gotten to the beach a mere half an hour ago, and neither of them had moved much since. Not even noon yet, the beach is still fairly secluded, the only real noise coming from a family some way up the beach, a father playing a comical game of football with a beach ball and his three excitable young daughters.

Luke wishes there was more noise to distract him from his thoughts.

“Something on your mind?” Ashton asks, lazily scratching at his chest. Luke stares out at the sea, eyes focusing where the sky meets the ocean. For a moment, he thinks about pretending not to hear him, but that proves difficult when Ashton sits up beside him, their sunscreen-sticky shoulders brushing together. Ashton jostles him gently. “Huh, mate?”

Though it’s a pointless endeavour, Luke reaches down to rid himself of the thievish grains of sand between his toes. Sand will cling to him for days, appearing in his pockets and shoes, the beach persistent in its plague of him. Maybe there’ll be sand in the sheets he and Ashton share, too.

There are several questions Luke would like to ask Ashton, but most of them have answers that he doesn’t want to hear, so he doesn’t ask them. There are several thoughts in his head, things he wants to stay, but he’s left them festering for too long to be able to control them. Like a horror of his own creation, he would likely die in pursuit of them, just as he had sacrificed everything to destroy the monster he had created when he was fourteen years old. The monster that had been eating him alive ever since.

Sleepwalking through life, he’s beginning to think he never really killed it.

Eyes on the ocean, he wonders if it could swim. He wonders how long would he have to hold it under to drown. He wonders if Ashton knows.

“Not really,” is what he eventually settles on, turning to Ashton to instil some sort of validity to his claim.

Perhaps behind his sunglasses Ashton cannot tell that Luke is a liar, or perhaps he just chooses to ignore it. Whatever the reason, all he does is lift an arm to drape over Luke’s shoulders, fingers playing with the cut off sleeve of his shirt. “You can tell me anything,” he says, an invitation more than a prod for information. His fingers squeeze down on the curve of Luke’s shoulder. “Anything,” he reaffirms, head close by Luke’s, their foreheads almost brushing.

Wetting his bottom lip, Luke is struck by their proximity. He could kiss Ashton by accident.

He swallows hard, pulling himself from Ashton.

“Thanks, man,” he says, hoping that Ashton failed to notice the slight skip in his voice.

Ashton’s hand slips down Luke’s back, the top of his bum, coming to rest on the towel he sits on. “So, do you want to go swimming? Could really do with a quick dip in the—”

Ashton is simultaneously distracted and interrupted by a sheepish voice accompanied by a shadow that casts over them both. As he pulls his arm away, he caresses Luke’s lower back, the contact making Luke jerk forward slightly, and suddenly his cheeks are ablaze with embarrassment as well as sunburn.

A girl stands above them, her fingers wringing in the bottom of her t-shirt. Luke is vaguely aware of her asking for a picture, her hands shaking as she reaches for her phone, and Ashton getting to his feet, saying, “Yeah, sure,” with that award-winning smile that used to slightly peeve Luke off, especially when he was already feeling miserable. He’s only properly aware when Ashton looks down at him, eyebrows quirked in confusion. “Luke,” he says. “She wants a picture. Move your arse.”

Luke looks at the girl, at the soft roundness of her features, and searches for any disdain or resentment only to find none. He clambers to his feet awkwardly, dusting himself down as he goes. Standing dumbly, he lets the featherlight touch of Ashton’s fingers against the small of his back direct him into place, and finds himself leaning forward, his chin almost grazing the girl’s shoulder. Ashton’s hand rests on his waist as he does the same on the opposite side.

“Smile,” Ashton says as the girl holds out her phone in front of them, their faces clear on the inside camera.

“Thank you so much,” the girl says, the heat of her nervousness dying and settling Luke down. “Can I get a hug?” she asks, lifting her arms slightly, timid of rejection; Luke can sympathise. Ashton hugs her first, then Luke. “I hope you’re okay,” she says, Luke’s arms still stiffly draped around her, and she says it like she knows, soft and gentle. “Will you ever get back together?” she then asks. “Everyone misses you so much.”

“Maybe someday,” Ashton says.

“Maybe,” Luke agrees, though he’s not so sure.

As she says goodbye, the muscles in Luke’s cheeks twitch as he smiles, hand raised in an awkward half-wave. He turns to Ashton then, who’s still standing with him, his body curved forwards as he stretches out his back. He groans a little.

“Want to get coffee?” he asks.

“I thought you wanted to go swimming?” Luke says.

Straightening up, Ashton lifts an eyebrow at him. “Would you rather go swimming?” he asks, and Luke shakes his head. “Well then. Get your stuff.”

They amble back to Luke’s car, the sand and tarmac warm beneath their bare feet. Luke rests his elbow up on the roof as he balances to shove his trainers back on, sand already beginning to rub between his toes and the heel of his foot. He shifts awkwardly, adjusting to the inevitable discomfort, still wiggling his toes though the friction is beginning to burn.

Luke is well accustomed to LA, but this stretch of seafront is foreign to him; he lets Ashton lead the way, shortening his strides to stay in line with him and keeping his hands tightly tucked in the pockets of his shorts to stave off the urge to brush his fingers against Ashton’s. Unfortunately he can do nothing about the way Ashton’s elbows touch his arm as they wait for a green man at a set of light, the rough skin dragging over his arm a pleasantly strange sensation.

Turning to the side, Luke feels comically large in the small café Ashton spots after ten minutes of directionless walking. Inside the tables are cramped together, leather peels from the base of the chairs and lights hang just low enough for Luke to be wary. For the sake of Luke’s legs, they decide to sit outside under the awning, but not before Ashton takes a picture of the café’s ‘aesthetic’, much to Luke’s amusement.

Drumming his fingers on the table, nails clicking on the wooden surface, Luke watches Ashton lean back in his seat, sunglasses pushed into his hair. He looks slightly older than Luke remembers from before, which is something he’s never really had the time or distance to notice before. From the beginning to the end, every gradual change in Ashton passed him by, but now there are creases etched below his eyes that Luke doesn’t remember being there, a slight tiredness to his skin despite the healthy colour.

Only the buzz of Luke’s phone on the table distracts him from staring at Ashton any longer.

It’s a text from Michael.

Lifting his eyes from where his phone sits, Luke finds Ashton staring back at him. Flicking his gaze between them both, Luke reaches for his phone and slips it into the pocket of his shorts, accidentally bumping his hips against the table as he shifts up in the small space he’s left himself.

“Do you talk to Michael much?” Ashton asks, tilting his head to the side. His own hands come up to rest on the table, clasping together loosely, thumbs rubbing together. Luke can’t help but stare. “I know he’s been busy with his rec centre and everything.”

“Sometimes,” Luke answers, but it’s a push if that. For a while, he and Michael liked to pretend that nothing had changed—and it hadn’t, really, because they were friends before they were in a band, and that’s what mattered most of all. Mostly they liked to ignore that anything was wrong, perfectly content to live in ignorance until Michael found something else to focus his attention on and Luke was left stuck with nothing. “He’s been busy,” Luke echoes.

Luke’s the only one that hasn’t been.

Their drinks come then, distracting Ashton from saying whatever he has ready on the tip of his tongue and leaving them to coexist in silence for a little while. Slurping up his frappe through a straw, Luke keeps his eyes down, not chancing a glance up at Ashton in fear of conversation. It’ll undoubtedly come, Ashton’s mouth unable to keep shut for very long, but the quiet settles his mind down for a bit, no longer whirring in search of the answers Ashton might want to hear.

And then his thoughts come creeping back, wild and unruly, flooding his bones with guilt. His palms sweat despite the coolness of the drink that they envelope.

“Can we go back home?” he asks quickly, mouth hovering just above his straw.

Ashton doesn’t quite catch the disappointment that breaks out across his face. “Already?” he asks. “Don’t you want to go back to the beach? We were barely there.”

Luke shakes his head. “Please?”

Sighing, Ashton relents, moving his sunglasses down over his eyes again. “If that’s what you want.”

*

No more than an hour later, Luke finds himself sitting on his own doorstep, rubbing the sand from between his toes. Ashton is already inside having muttered something about taking a shower to break the heavy silence that had consumed them on the drive back. The reason for the silence was unclear and remains so, Luke’s thoughts caught between Ashton’s subtle annoyance and a general lack of anything to say. With so many subjects leading the way to unstable ground, he supposes that sort of silence isn’t so bad.

Grabbing his shoes from the ground, Luke heads inside. He hears the shower running and the squeak of the soles of Ashton’s feet against the bottom of the bathtub as he passes the bathroom, heading for his own bedroom. Despite the coffee that he’d drank thus far today, all the unfamiliar excitement had gotten to his body, the caffeine doing nothing to fend off his fatigue.

He lies in bed with his headphones on, listening to one of their old albums down low and staring out of the window, trying to remember all the girls that had inspired him, all the ones he’d been in love with. The older ones about Aleisha are easy to pinpoint—those ones never felt uncomfortable to sing, even as they years passed. He hadn’t known it at the time, despite the many times that he’d told her so, but he had been in love with her. There was no doubt in his mind. She was his first love. He had loved all the others, too, despite what people thought of him. He had ruined every relationship he’d ever been in, but not for a moment had he not loved them.

Shifting onto his back to stare at the ceiling, he blinks back a warmth in his eyes. He’s not going to cry about it—especially not sober with Ashton in the next room. He rubs a hand over his face to be safe, grimacing slightly when he sees the tiny flecks of dead skin from his cheeks gather on the palm of his hand.

“Jesus!”

Luke sits up sharply, pulling his earbuds out and staring at Ashton, who’s got one hand clutching a towel around his waist, and the other flat against the wall, keeping him upright.

“Did you sneak up here or something?” Ashton says, moving over to the suitcase he’s somehow managed to migrate over to Luke’s house at some point. It seems like most of his easily moveable possessions are here, and sometimes Luke wonders what’s left at his house, if his car is even still there. “Almost gave me a heart attack.”

“It’s my house,” Luke mumbles, playing with the wire of his earphones, wrapping it around his finger until the blood stops circulating.

“I guess so,” Ashton says, dropping his towel.

Luke’s seen Ashton naked before—he’s seen all the boys naked before, perhaps a tad too often for his liking—so it doesn’t bother him. Not usually, at least. Right now there’s something tickling at Luke’s throat as he watches the way Ashton’s thighs move as he crouches over his suitcase, soft cock hanging between his legs. Luke jerks his head upwards.

“Can you please—put on some clothes, dude?” he says weakly, as if tacking on ‘dude’ makes it any less weird that he’s just willingly took an eyeful of Ashton’s dick.

“When did you become a prude,” Ashton says, tugging on a pair of boxers. When he straightens up, Luke turns his head back to him and notices a few drops of water dripping from his hair despite the effort he’s clearly taken to towel it dry. Luke watches them streak down Ashton’s stomach, quietly making a bet which one he thinks will reach the waistband of his boxers first. He doesn’t get a chance to find out, because Ashton’s flinging himself down beside him, bouncing to a stop mere inches away from him. “Are you alright?” he asks for what seems like the hundredth time. “On the beach, you seemed a bit—spooked.”

“Spooked?” Luke asks quietly. He looks down over his shoulder at where Ashton lies, chin perched in an open palm. “What’d you mean _spooked_?”

Ashton pushes some of the damp hair from his forehead as he shrugs. “Like. I don’t know. You just seemed really on edge the entire time, like you were going to bolt into the sea or something.”

Body strung so tight it might snap, Luke knows exactly what Ashton is talking about. Like an alien trying to imitate human nature, he lies back before flipping onto his side, facing Ashton. Headphones abandoned, he rests his cheek on his hands.

He doesn’t expect Ashton to reach out and tuck a stray bit of hair behind his ear, his large open palm resting on his cheek afterwards, thumb stroking over his burnt skin. Ashton’s eyes move over him like searchlights on a prison wall. Before Luke can say anything, encourage anything, Ashton’s hand slowly clenches into a fist and he pulls it back to his body. He’s smiling.

“What’s black and white and red all over?” Ashton says. Luke shakes his head. “A sunburnt panda. What’s black and white and won’t stop spinning?” he says and again Luke shakes his head, the beginnings of a smile starting play at the corner of his mouth. “A panda rolling down a hill. What’s black and white and won’t stop laughing?”

“No clue,” Luke answers gently this time.

Ashton leans forward, smiling like it’s the greatest and not the lamest joke ever. “The panda that pushed him.”

Luke shakes his head because that truly is awful—but it’s Ashton, so it’s strangely endearing and he has to cover his laugh with a scoff to save face. In front of him, Ashton sinks into the sheets, delighted. Whatever battle he thinks he’s fighting, it looks like he’s won.  

*

In the throes of his adolescence, liking boys never occurred to Luke.

Stepping under the spray of the shower, Luke runs through memories of his childhood and tries to remember something, anything that might even by construed as an indication for being anything other than completely straight. He had been different, sure—a little more sensitive than his brothers, a little weirder in his interests, but nothing pertaining to boys. There was of course the many times Michael—and on the odd occasion Calum—called him a faggot or a homo, but Luke very much doubted either of them meant it like _that_. It’s not like they could see it on his face. He wouldn’t give them the credit even if they did.

Much of Luke’s youth had been ate up in a whirlwind of hysteria, though, so it isn’t exactly surprising that he never had the time to sit and mull over whether he liked boys or not. It hadn’t been an option; the throngs of girls showering him in attention had been his option, one which he’d shamelessly—and later shamefully—taken advantage of for years. Between one-night stands and girlfriends, the idea of those girls being boys never crossed his mind.

Until one day it did.

Luke’s soap-slick hands run over his stomach and thighs, eyes shutting at the memory of the boy in the club that had flirted with him not months before. His name was Patrick and he was short and well-kept, brimming with a bravado that Luke could only dream of as he offered to buy him a drink, teeth and earring sparkling. It’s not like Luke’s never noticed an attractive man before—his masculinity is not so fragile to admit it—but it’s the first time he’s ever been _attracted_ to another man, hands twitching around his drink, wanting nothing more than to reach out and touch the back of Patrick’s neck to pull him in for a kiss.

He doesn’t. He doesn’t do anything but dance with him, but Luke still remembers the press of Patrick’s cock up against his leg, the firmness with which he gripped onto Luke’s waist, and then his backside to keep him close through a muddle of strangers in the dark. Sighing, Luke drops his chin to his chest, taking a hold of his cock and stroking it, defeated.

His hand moves in a steady rhythm, slick and easy under the spray of the shower, not even trying to combat the flickering images of Patrick pressing against him, whispering and laughing in his ear, telling him how handsome he is. The validation causes him the squeeze down on his cock, his other hand lifted and slipping against the wall tiles, the tiniest of whines slipping out between his heavy breaths.

“Fuck,” he mutters, shifting back slightly, as doubled-over as the space allows him. He moves his hand quicker over his cock, rhythm lost to desperation, the sensation in his stomach building warmly, causing a shiver to ripple up his back. Ashton isn’t home—he’s in the studio, desperate to finish off recording—so Luke doesn’t silence himself. _Ashton_. He moans loud and embarrassingly high-pitched when he comes, brows stitched together in a pleasant frown and teeth sunk low in his bottom lip.

Humming in satisfaction, he keeps his eyes closed and his hand on his cock until it starts to become uncomfortable. Only then does he stop and continue showering, trying his best to convince himself that Patrick’s face had not been replaced by Ashton’s as he got himself off.

*

The moment Ashton slips into bed beside him, exhausted, Luke’s chest goes tight with guilt. It’s a different sort of guilt, though—it’s much seedier than usual, enough to make his stomach churn and his fingers nails press into the flesh of his palm as some sort of punishment. To be safe, he stays on his side, back to Ashton, desperately willing to fall asleep despite his mind speeding up at the thought of Ashton coming any closer, melding himself into his back like before. Luke swallows at the thought, fingers moving to clench tightly onto the loose edge of his pillowcase.

“Luke?”

Stiffening at the sound of his name, Luke keeps still and his eyes squeezed shut. It’s awfully childish, he’s very aware of that, but that doesn’t stop him from pretending to be asleep to avoid conversation.

“Luke?”

This time, a hand comes down on Luke’s shoulder, shaking him just the slightest little bit. In his mind he runs through the scenario of pretending to wake up pissed off, effectively killing the prospect of any conversation dead, but he decides against it, opting instead for one final attempt at pretending to sleep. Unfortunately for him, Ashton is a stubborn bastard when he wants to be.

“Luke? Are you awake?”

With the smallest of sighs, Luke moves, slowly rolling over onto his back and looking up at where Ashton looms over him in the dark, sitting with his legs in a basket. In the pitch dark of Luke’s bedroom, he can only just make out the hunch of his shoulders and the low hang of his head, both of which prompt Luke to shuffle up his pillow, eventually lifting himself right up onto his elbows. 

“Yeah?” he whispers. “What’s the matter?” The turn in tables is an awkward one, Luke’s tone verging on sympathetic but heavy through a cloud of fatigue. With a small grunt, he pushes himself up to sit, accidentally butting his forehead into the curve of Ashton’s shoulder as he moves, making him whimper in surprise. “Fuck,” he mutters, rubbing at his forehead.

“Are you alright?” Ashton asks automatically, reaching out to touch Luke, laying a hand in his hair, fingers stroking through it.

So close to him, even through the fabric of his t-shirt Luke can feel the heat of Ashton’s body passing through him, causing a blush to start at the back of his neck and creep forward down his chest. “I asked you first,” Luke says indignantly after clearing his throat, shrugging off Ashton’s hand as subtly as possible with a jerk of his head. “You sound a bit—down.”

“I—” Ashton sighs, his head falling to the side. Eyes now more adjusted to the darkness, Luke notices his hands are in his lap now, long fingers twiddling together. Luke sort of wants to slip his hands in-between them, but he doesn’t think Ashton would take too kindly to him holding his hand.

“Did something happen?” Luke prompts.

“No, no, nothing happened. You know what, I shouldn’t have woken you up,” he says hurriedly. “Go back to bed. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“ _Dude_ , come on,” Luke says, shifting closer. The bare skin of their knees presses together. “You’ve got me all worried now.”

Ashton is quiet for a minute in contemplation. Considering the amount of concern Luke deflects from Ashton daily, he sits it out, waiting patiently, the only noise between them coming from the nervous drag of Luke’s nails across the itch on the inside of his thigh. If he ends up saying nothing at all, then he’ll let it go, he decides, but he needs to wait. He needs to show Ashton that same curtesy he’s been showing Luke since he was fifteen.

“I’m scared, man,” Ashton admits.

“Of what?” Luke asks, shifting forward ever so slightly, letting his hand rest loosely on Ashton’s thigh, knuckles grazing his skin.

Ashton shakes his head miserably. “’S fucking stupid,” he says, and at this Luke turns his hand around, presses his thumb into the hard muscle of Ashton’s thigh. Even in the dark, Luke can see Ashton’s gaze drop to where his hand rests, but he makes no attempt to move it. “We finished up recording today,” Ashton begins, “and all I could think about was if everyone was going to hate it.”

Nerves aren’t entirely uncommon under the circumstances, but never has Ashton let his apprehension outweigh his excitement. Ashton’s always been the one doing all the reassuring—even since their first gig, when Luke’s nerves were so tangible they clouded the air, Michael’s bravado slipped and Calum’s palms left sweaty prints on everything he touched. It had been Ashton to settle them then. It had been Ashton’s de facto duty from thereout.

His inherit belief in himself was something Luke most admired. His inherit belief in _them_ was something Luke could never understand.

Luke squeezes down hard on Ashton’s thigh, lips lifting in a half-smile. It’s supposed to be comforting, but he’s not entirely sure if either of them are convinced. “Someone’ll like it, even if everyone doesn’t,” he says. It’s not quite the motivational speech Ashton has given him down the years, but it’s something. “I know I will.”

Ashton is quiet for a moment. “Your music taste is shit, though.”

“Hey!” Luke huffs, thinking it to be a perfectly acceptable time to pinch at the hair on Ashton’s thigh. “No it isn’t,” he defends weakly as Ashton dissolves into laughter. If he hasn’t rid Ashton of his self-doubt then he’s at least provided a welcome distraction.

Luke’s pride almost quashes his guilt. Almost.

“Well, at least I know someone will buy it,” Ashton says, composure returned. His own hand crawls onto Luke’s knee as he yawns, skimming his thumb over the bone that juts out. “Thanks,” he says, though Luke doesn’t really think he’s done anything to warrant a thank you. If Ashton thinks so, though, he’s not about to argue.

“Anytime, Ash.”

*

Luke doesn’t awake all at one. A sound—he’s not sure what—breaks through the surface of his sleep and sinks like a stone in water. Like the ink of a newspaper left out in the rain, his dream begins to run, streaking over the surface of his consciousness. The once sharp image of Ashton on the beach, tanned and sweaty beside him, is replaced by a sickening swirl of colours before making way for the off-white ceiling above him. Groaning, Luke turns onto his side, face buried in the sheets. Once again, he wills sleep to take him, but it’s no use.

With a quick scratch of his beard, Luke slips out of his room and pads down to the kitchen, squinting in the light of a new day. The weight in his stomach has somewhat lifted, making him search out Ashton in anticipation rather than dread. He’s still not entirely sure how comfortable he is with himself fantasising about Ashton’s cock in his hand and in his mouth, making him come undone in every which way possible, but there’s nothing he can really do about it.

Ashton is being nice to him. He’s the only person Luke sees every day. Of course he’s going to invade his subconscious, Luke reasons.

It’s complete bullshit.

He finds Ashton out in his garden, laid out on his back with his hands cushioning his head and a small stretch of skin exposed by the way his arms pull his t-shirt up. Luke lands heavy on his knees beside him, bare skin staining green. He hasn’t bothered to get dressed, tight boxers and loose t-shirt clinging and hanging from his body as he moves down onto his bum, legs crossed in a basket. Absentmindedly, he begins pulling grass from the ground again as he watches Ashton relax, his eyes shut against the sun. Like this, Ashton looks younger than he’s done in years.

Of course, the silence that exists between them allows for Luke’s mind to wonder what it would be like to lie himself down on top of Ashton, feel his body flush against his own. He wonders what it would feel like to have Ashton’s denim-covered crotched rub against his as they grind together in the sunshine, no chance of anyone seeing what they’re up to. He swallows down a thick and heavy lump in his throat, fists tightening in the grass either side of him, an awkward and obvious bulge in his boxers.

“You’re quiet,” Ashton says suddenly, startling Luke.

In some vain attempt at preserving his dignity, Luke rearranges his legs, bringing his knees his chest, keeping his thighs squeezed together. “Missed the sound of my voice, did ya?” Luke says, stretching out a leg and nudging Ashton’s hip with the sole of his foot.

“You wish,” Ashton says, snapping his eyes open and giving Luke a lazy smile. Sun in his eyes, he shifts slowly onto his side. Grass sticks to the top of his shoulder and his hair, calling for Luke to pick it out, but he refrains. One hand cupping his cheek, elbow deep in the grass, Ashton lifts his other hand and lets his fingers drag over the bridge of Luke’s bare foot, sending a shiver from his toes, all the way up his spine. “I’m free today, if you want to do something,” he tells him.

“Not planning to breathe down the sound engineer’s neck?” Luke teases, tongue caught between his teeth.

“Do you really think I’d let them do anything without me there?” Ashton says, eyebrows raised.

“Suppose not,” Luke says, tilting his head and letting his toes curl into the grass. Ashton, who is half sheltered by his shadow, stares up at him, finger still tracing a repetitive pattern on the top of Luke’s foot. “What?”

“You seem happier. Than before.”

Luke lets his hands unclench in the grass, the tension strung up his arms and shoulders loosening until he’s almost falling back onto his elbows. Happier is a word for it—more alive is how Luke would describe it, the late-morning sun beating down on his bare arms and legs. More alive and less lonely. He smiles down at Ashton, and it melts into the sunshine that surrounds him.

“We should go out,” Luke suggests, life fizzing in his bones. “Tonight, I mean. Have a couple of drinks.”

Ashton agrees easily.

Unlike last time, Luke paces himself, acutely aware of the vaguely familiar faces elsewhere in the lounge they sit in and the firm press of Ashton’s thigh pressing against his, squashing him into the far corner of the booth. The heat from his body is soothing in the dull yellowish glow of the glass light that hangs just above them, arm carelessly thrown over his shoulder, keeping him near. Luke melts into it, letting his head hang low as Ashton speaks into his ear despite the music filtering through the bar being soft and quiet, hot breath tickling the side of his neck.

“It’s good to hang out with you like this again,” Ashton tells him as he watches the little ice cubes clink around in his empty class. Ashton lifts his hand from Luke’s shoulder, curling it around the side of his head and forcing Luke’s head closer to him. Pressing a wet, whisky-tinged kiss to Luke’s forehead, he ruffles his hair, curls brushed out into loose waves for the occasion. “Missed you so much, buddy.”

Even when Ashton’s hand drops back to his shoulder, Luke stays where he is; hidden away in the confines of Ashton’s chest. He sets his drink down and places a hand on Ashton’s knee. “I missed you, too.” His nails dig into the denim of Ashton’s jeans. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, throat watery suddenly, before he can stop himself.

Ashton forces his head up, lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “I know,” he says, forehead knocking against Luke’s temple, spatial awareness waning. “I know you are but it’s really not your fault.”

Luke wants to protest because it _is_ —it is his fault, but Ashton’s fingers tighten in his hair as he goes to speak, the sharp sensation streaking through his scalp causing the words to die in his mouth. He whimpers only when Ashton lets him go.

“If it wasn’t you it would’ve been me,” Ashton is saying then, mostly to himself. He sinks back, the leather of the booth seat squealing beneath him as he moves. “I guess I just—I guess I just didn’t want to admit to myself that it was all over. I guess it was just easier to blame you than to face up to it.” Ashton turns to Luke, a sadness so evident in his eyes that Luke almost chokes on his own heart. “It wasn’t anybody’s fault, Luke—and it sure has hell wasn’t yours.”

A small, strangled noise escapes Luke as he turns his head to stare down at the table. It feels like a weight has been lifted from his chest, but the sudden absence sends his ribcage constricting painfully, crushing his heart and lungs together in a mess. He swallows hard, throat dry from the alcohol. His hand remains on Ashton’s knee, anchoring him down from spinning off.

“Have you had enough?” Ashton asks quietly.

Years ago, Luke would have scoffed. Months ago, Luke would have scoffed. He nods, head jerking around. He’s had enough.

*

They kiss for the first time the next day.

Luke spends the morning unsteady in the wake of absolution, mind reeling from one place to another, it nor is body able to settle down in one place. He spends as long as possible lying in bed with Ashton, body thrumming like a livewire beside him, but he knows he’ll only work himself into a state if he stays any longer.

Sometime between a failed attempt at making himself breakfast and trying to find something decent on the television, he decides a bath will settle him down. He’s not had the patience to run himself a bath in ages, the thought of merely dragging himself to stand under the spray of the shower a completely immobilising one not that long ago. It’ll be nice, though, he convinces himself, creeping around upstairs as quietly as possible so as to not wake Ashton up.

While the water runs, Luke perches his bum on the edge of the tub, watching, completely hypnotised as the water mixes with the generous amount of bubble bath that he’s poured in with it. He runs it hot, steam wafting skywards, and already the muscles in his back begin to loosen at the thought of the warm water engulfing him. Unable to wait, he carefully dips his fingers in the water through a mountain of bubbles and shivers at the pleasant cleansing sensation that comes with hot water washing over your skin.

He lowers himself in carefully, mindful of his size and Ashton’s irrational agitation from wet bathroom floors. Despite his best efforts, a small wave of water jumps over the edge of the tub, landing to the tiles with a tell-tale splash. “Fuck,” Luke mutters, not chancing a glance over the edge.

He’s only human, so he spends the first couple of minutes sat collecting the bubbles in his hand and blowing on them hard, watching the suds fall like snow around him. When this begins to grow boring, he settles for destroying the bubbles that are left, his enthusiasm sending more water out of the tub and onto the floor.

Sighing, he lets himself lean back against the bathtub, his knees rising to make room for his body as he slips down until his chin grazes the surface of the water. If he could, he would go lower, immerse himself completely in the warmth of the water, but he’s only got so much space to work with. It’s as good as he’s going to get; the weirdly cool air hitting his arms, face and knees as the rest of him slowly prunes in the lavender-scented liquid.

He’s not entirely sure how long he’s in there when he hears movement on the other side of the bathroom door. All he does know is that it’s Ashton. And when someone calls his name, that’s Ashton, too.

“Yeah?” he croaks, barely loud enough to hear. The muscles all over his body, even in his mouth, have been reduced to nothing in the heat. It’s the most pleasant weightlessness in the world. “Ashton?” he tries again, slightly louder.

The door to the bathroom opens, slowly revealing Ashton. He’s clearly just up, eyes bleary and hair mused, dressed in a tank top that exposes the swell of his biceps and a pair of sweatpants that don’t belong to him. Luke can tell they’re his from the way they droop down Ashton’s waist, slightly too big for him. The sight shouldn’t make Luke bite down on his lower lip, but it does.

He sort of wishes he hadn’t destroyed all the bubbles now.

“Hey,” Ashton says, taking a step closer. “That nice?”

Assuming he means the bath, Luke nods as he sits up, taking the opportunity to bring his knees up and hide his cock from Ashton’s view. He’s not even hard, but it’s still embarrassing when he’s the only one completely naked.

Ashton’s eyes are on him as he walks closer, which is probably why he almost slips on the water on the floor, catching himself on the cold rim of the sink as Luke startles, sending even more water over the edge. “Jesus, Luke,” Ashton shouts in his momentary panic, now grimacing down at the cold water seeping into his socks. Grabbing the towel Luke had been intending on using to dry himself, he drops it to the floor and sits down on it.

“No, it’s alright, Ashton, please do join me while I’m taking a bath,” Luke says, the fluttering fear in his own chest subsiding. “That’s not weird.”

“Shut up,” Ashton bites with a smile, shifting to fold his arms on the edge of the tub, chin resting in the space between them. Luke splashes him with water. Ashton makes a face, bottom lip protruding. “I only came to ask you how you were,” Ashton says.

Luke crosses his arms over his knees. “Fine,” he says, and it’s true. Honestly and genuinely fine. “All good. You?”

“Bit hungover,” he admits, turning his head, letting his cheek rest on his folded arms. Slowly, one of his hands slips into the water, fingers gliding through it, the shape of them distorted beneath the surface. Luke’s spent way too much time fantasising how his cock would look in Ashton’s hands to stare for very long. “But I’ll live.”

Luke nods instead of answering, not trusting his voice.

The ensuing moment of silence is nothing but weird; Luke frozen still in the now lukewarm water as Ashton continues to submerge his fingers in it. There’s a brief instance when Ashton touches the top of Luke’s shin, causing them both to look at each other, then elsewhere, a strange air building between them. Luke might start choking on it if he’s not careful, the dry tightness in his throat returning with a painful vengeance.

Luke squirms in the tub.

“Ash?”

“Yeah?” Ashton says, taking his hand from the water and shaking his fingers, letting little drops disturb the surface.

Luke wets his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. “Did you mean what you said last night?” Luke asks, weak as a whisper. “Did you mean it when you said—”

“That it’s not your fault? Yeah, I meant it,” Ashton says, shifting up slightly onto his elbows. Like this, his face is pretty much level with Luke’s; the perfect height to just lean in and—

—kiss him.

 _Ashton’s kissing him_.

The surprise of it catches Luke with his mouth open, but he shuts it quickly, lips in a hard line and pressing against Ashton’s with an equal force. Unsure what to do with them, he keeps his arms limply crossed over his knees as Ashton slips his hand through Luke’s hair, long fingers slotting together at the base of his skull, keeping his head tipped up. It’s an awkward angle despite Ashton’s best efforts, so Luke pulls away to move, a soft whine leaving Ashton’s parted lips as his eyes search across Luke’s face for any negative reaction.

“I’ve wanted—” Ashton begins, lips quivering, and Luke moves, feeling ten times too big for the tub now, sloshing water all over the place to sit back on his heels. He leans forward this time, lifting his arms to wrap around Ashton’s neck, completely uncaring about getting him or the floor even wetter. 

They kiss again, and this time Luke feels the stab of Ashton’s tongue against his mouth. He lets him in with startling ease, brow pinching together in the centre, kissing back harder. Ashton doesn’t kiss like Luke had imagined; there’s an underlying gentleness to the way he kisses, open-mouthed and clumsy, balanced only by the firmness with which he grips onto the damp curls at the back of Luke’s neck. Luke moans at the feeling, eyes scrunched shut and almost pricking with tears. Kissing Ashton is better than he ever could’ve imagined.

“Luke,” he’s saying all of a sudden, breath coming out in hot bursts of air against Luke’s lips. “Wait, Luke—”

Luke shakes his head, fingers tightening around Ashton’s jaw. He doesn’t want to wait; he wants to kiss Ashton until his lungs give out, starved of oxygen. He wants to rid the tightness from his chest once and for all. He kisses Ashton in short, firm presses of his lips, becoming increasingly desperate against the stiffness beneath him.

Opening his eyes, he’s about to beg—beg for Ashton to kiss him back again, when he pulls away completely, slinking to the bathroom floor and resting his head against the cabinet. Luke can’t move, fingers still curling around thin air where Ashton’s face had been. Only the sound of droplets falling from Luke’s body and hitting the surface of the water echoes around the bathroom between them.

Now it’s Ashton shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he says, voice small. He pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes and rubs furiously. “Fuck!” he barks.

And no, no, no this isn’t what Luke wants. “Ashton,” he says. “Maybe we should talk. We need to talk,” Luke corrects. Ashton’s eyes are bleary when he removes his hands, but he gives Luke the slightest of nods. “Just—just give me a minute?” Luke says, motioning down at himself.

Only when Ashton drags himself out of the bathroom does Luke begin to tremor with the fear of rejection, hands unsteady as he wraps the damp towel from the floor around his waist. God only knows how he manages to make his own way from the bathroom to his bedroom without his knees giving way from underneath him. It takes about an equal amount of strength not to run away from the sight of Ashton sitting on the end of his bed, head hung low and resting in his hands, fingers scratching through his scalp.

Luke sits beside him, careful not to touch. He rests his palms on his knees, staring straight ahead.

“You said that you wanted to—you wanted to kiss me,” Luke says, voice jumping like a broken record. Ashton hadn’t said that, not explicitly, but he’d meant to. Luke squeezes his eyes shut and digs his nails into his knees. “That’s what I wanted, too,” he whispers.

Ashton’s head lifts slowly. “Yeah, because you’re lonely. Jesus, Luke, you’re just—”

Suddenly, Luke finds his voice. “Don’t you dare fucking tell me how I feel,” he snaps, eyes narrowed at Ashton. “You have no fucking right.”

The shock at Luke’s outburst leaves Ashton’s speechless. He’s frowning, something ready on the tip of his tongue, but he leaves it be. Instead, when he does speak, it’s a soft, quiet, “Stop that,” as he reaches for Luke’s hands, gently coaxing them to loosen their grip on his knees. Once Luke has balled his hands up on his thighs, Ashton brushes his thumb over the crescent-shaped indents left in the skin of his knee, focusing on nothing else for a moment.

“So are you…?”

“Into blokes?” Ashton supplies, the shrugs. Red rises in his cheeks. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

Luke keeps his eyes on his hands, opening up one of his palms and tracing over the faint line left behind. “I think I am,” he says, unsure, then shivers, the air hitting his damp body. He reaches up to slick his wet hair back, then shudders again at a small waterfall trailing down his back starting from the ends of his hair. “As well as girls,” he adds. “I think I like both.”

“Same,” Ashton says, nodding. “I think I’ve always—yeah. Both.”

Luke scratches a hand over the hair on his chest, then his neck, then his beard, skin crawling. It’s not bad, just different. He feels a bit stupid just sitting here, clad in only a towel, talking to Ashton about this. He’s done with talking—he wants to kiss Ashton again, but he’s not entirely sure where he stands.

So he asks.

“Can I kiss you?” he says, cheeks flushing because he’s just asked _Ashton_ if he can kiss him.

When Ashton nods, lips threatening to break into a smile, Luke shifts closer and lifts a hand to curl around the back of Ashton’s neck. He leans in, tongue out, because it’s the only sort of clumsy, sloppy way he knows how to lead a kiss. Ashton doesn’t seem to mind, one of his hands sneaking across the front of Luke’s towel to grab at his hip. It takes a few subtle squeezes of Ashton’s hand for Luke to catch his drift, but then he’s all too eager climb up onto his lap, laughing slightly into the kiss as Ashton catches his towel from slipping off.

Luke’s not entirely sure how long they stay like this, but he loves it. He loves the way Ashton grips onto his hair, his sides, his bum, large hands so comforting wherever they roam along his body. He loves the noises Ashton makes, that their tongues make, that the bed makes when he pushes Ashton down to explore more than just his mouth.

By the time they’ve settled, Luke is placing small wet kisses on the side of Ashton’s neck as they lie down together, Ashton’s fingers playing with Luke’s damp curls, twisting and untwisting a strand lazily as he stares at the ceiling.


	2. hold back your love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> s'appenin folks. so as you might've noticed, i changed the chapter count from 2 to 3, and that's mainly because i had too many loose ends to tie up in one other chapter. so. aye. promise i won't start rippin the pish and add a chapter every time. i'd also just like to give a wee overall thanks for the feedback and support i've received from the first chapter. you're all quality. enjoy x

Still groggy from his hangover, Ashton falls asleep not long after he pulls away from Luke, lips so tingly and numb there’s really no point in kissing anymore. So deliriously content, Luke lets him use his chest as a pillow until his stomach begins to growl and gargle, that weird, almost acidic feeling licking up the walls of it. He shifts slowly and carefully from beneath Ashton, holding the towel that’s still clinging to his hips for dear life, and gets dressed as quietly as possible. Ashton’s still soundly asleep by the time he’s slipping out of his bedroom and leaving him behind.

It’s around mid-afternoon, and the light continues to pour in through the windows as Luke stuffs jam-slathered toast into his mouth. The jam is sticky and sweet, leaving the slightest ache in the back of his mouth, and he can’t help sucking on his teeth as he relaxes on the couch, a hand resting across his stomach as it settles.

His mind can’t settle, though. He runs over the past month or so in his head, from the moment Ashton arrived at his front door to the moment he leaned over and kissed him in the bathtub. He’s trying to remember clues, things he might’ve missed. Certainly Ashton hadn’t shown up on his doorstep with the intentions of making a move on him, although the reason behind his initial visit is still unknown to Luke. He thinks about it hard, the episode of Family Guy playing on the TV morphing slowly into background noise, but he honestly can’t think of anything Ashton’s done to even suggest that he likes him like that.

He thinks further back. He thinks of all the band practices, all the shows, all the interviews, all the meet and greets. He thinks of pulling back the curtain of his bunk to find Ashton giving him _that_ look and quietly nodding as Luke desperately tries to explain to him that he’s gone mad—and he really means it this time. Completely mad. There’s far, far too much going on in his head and all that he wants to do is go home and hide away from the world. It’s all getting too much for him now.

The whole thing is a blur, like he’s trapped in the middle of a zoetrope, condemned to watch the same, sickening cycle over and over again. Disorientated, he stumbles around in his thoughts, the swirl of colours refusing to cease until a familiar whipping sound cuts through the air and there’s so much pain everywhere the he just can’t—

“Luke!”

The zoetrope tips, sending Luke tumbling back to consciousness, back to Ashton. He blinks up at the man that hovers over him, momentarily unaware of the breaths rattling through his chest and coming out in short, quick bursts. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth as he tries to speak. “Must have—must have fallen asleep,” he manages, pushing himself up, leaning on the heels of his hands.

“Yeah, you think?” Ashton crouches in the small space between the couch and coffee table, his hand resting gingerly by Luke’s thigh for balance. He looks concerned, but he’s still forcing out a smile. “As long as you’re alright,” he says, patting his thigh before straightening up.

It’s as Ashton turns to leave that the magnitude of what they’ve done hits him. He watches him move away, wanting to reach out and grab him but finding his limbs stiff, paralysed by the fear that Ashton’s going to pretend like nothing happened. He couldn’t do that, could he? Ashton’s the one that kissed him, the one who said he’s wanted it. Luke stares at the television, one of those obnoxiously loud adverts whizzing around on screen, and wonders if pretending like it never happened would actually be the better option.

He wonders what he actually wanted in the first place.

Looking at Ashton, it’s hard to think. It’s hard to remember anything apart from the press of Ashton’s lips against his and the assured drag of his calloused hands down his bare stomach, making it suck in and quiver. In that moment, and all those that surrounded it, he had wanted to kiss Ashton. In that moment, that’s what he had wanted more than anything in the world. He hadn’t thought about the repercussions, what might become of them after he was done kissing back. In that moment, it hadn’t mattered.

It does now.

It matters now, because if he doesn’t figure it out, then he’s going to go as mad as he’d been before. If he doesn’t decide exactly what he wants and tell Ashton about it, then there’s always going to be this unspoken thing between them with no name or closure. He needs to pin this down and crucify it if he has to.

He’s not entirely sure what he’s doing as he gets to his feet and crosses the short length to the kitchen where Ashton stands with his back to him, kettle boiling by his side. His legs feel heavy still, but he manages to get there without falling, a jolt of confidence spreading through his chest when he realises Ashton’s is still wearing his sweatpants. It’s ridiculous, but at the very least the mere thought of Luke isn’t making his skin crawl.

Luke reaches out and touches the crook of Ashton’s elbow, giving him a small fright. Ashton swears as he turns, stepping into Luke’s space and almost bumping up against him. His face is right there, Luke is acutely aware, consuming his vision and every thought, the very centre of the world he’s built around himself. He can’t breathe, heart beating wildly in his throat and body swaying from the light-headedness that it brings, threatening to send him toppling into Ashton, falling to the ground.

Ashton won’t let that happen again. He presses forward, hands flighty on Luke’s waist until he twists his fingers into the fabric of Luke’s t-shirt. He must catch some of Luke’s skin through the fabric because the younger man jerks slightly, sending his hips flat against Ashton’s and melding them together where they stand. To press their lips together seems the most natural course of action, so Luke does, cradling Ashton’s face in his hands and stepping them backwards until Ashton’s back meets the edge of the counter.

Ashton’s body is rigid between Luke’s and the counter, his hands welded in to the fabric of his t-shirt like he’s never going to let it go. Luke hopes he never does, sliding his hands into Ashton’s hair and pressing him harder into the counter. Panic only begins to spread through him when he realises Ashton isn’t kissing him back like before, his mouth solid and unmoving, like he’s letting Luke kiss him out of some sort of pity. He’s about to pull away when Ashton’s hands slip from his waist to his backside, settling his hands there and moaning as he opens his mouth to Luke.

The wet sound of saliva is quiet against the thundering of blood in Luke’s ears and the angry rumble of boiling water from somewhere behind them. It’s only the sound of the kettle that keeps Luke grounded, reminding him that this is not all just a dream and the bliss bursting through his chest is very, very real.

Luke pulls away to catch his breath, lips wet and warm against Ashton’s stubble. He’s not really standing on his own anymore, limp against Ashton like a ragdoll, his ribcage pressing awkwardly down against Ashton’s as they both pant. It’s only then that Ashton’s arms move to hold him properly, tight around his back, hauling him against his chest as he threatens to slink to the kitchen floor.

Ashton drops his head down to kiss Luke’s neck.

“When I woke up and you weren’t there,” Ashton says.

“Yeah,” Luke says, light and airy, tilting his head back to give Ashton more room.

“I thought you’d changed your mind,” he says, then drags his teeth up the column of Luke’s throat. It’s rough, but not as much as the scrape of Ashton’s nose against Luke’s beard. “I thought you’d—you didn’t want it.”

“I don’t know what I want,” Luke admits quietly, eyes open and on the ceiling. He feels Ashton pull away from him slightly, leaning even further back into the counter. When he speaks, he drops his hands to his sides and doesn’t dare look Ashton in the eye. “I want this. You. But I don’t know how. You’re—you’re my best mate and I love you but—”

Ashton’s hands are suddenly on Luke’s face, forcing his head down. Luke flushes hot with embarrassment as Ashton’s thumbs slide across his cheeks. “I don’t know either,” he says, voice small but sure. “I just knew that I needed to—” Ashton cuts himself off by pressing a small kiss to Luke’s lips. “I needed to do something or I’d never do it. Then I thought that maybe I was taking advantage? That’s why I thought you were kissing me back because you were lonely. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”  

This time it’s Luke that cuts Ashton off, kissing him in favour of hearing the end of his sentence. He doesn’t want to know how sorry Ashton is because there’s nothing to be sorry about.

“How long have you wanted to,” Luke whispers out, “—with me.”

Ashton laughs, resting his forehead against Luke’s and moving his hands down to rest on his waist. “It’s so dumb, man. The night before I came here, I just had this…urge, or something. Like I really needed to see you. I realised pretty quick that I—well, I don’t really know how to explain it. It sounds like bullshit but being here, it was like I could feel something I’d been missing, y’know?”

Luke hums, finally stepping free of him.

Ashton’s fingers continue to hook loosely into Luke’s t-shirt before dropping down, bracing himself on the counter. “What about you?” he asks, cocking his head.

Luke laughs nervously and scratches at his underarm. “I’ve been thinking about you for a little bit,” he says and shrugs, eyes dropping to the floor the moment a grin breaks out on Ashton’s face. He doesn’t say it, but Ashton knows exactly what he’s been thinking about. He can feel himself go pink.

Ashton giggles. “Aww, Huke,” he says, “if only I’d known.”

“Piss off,” Luke groans, indignant. “So, have you ever, y’know, done anything with a guy?” Luke asks, trying to keep his voice level, because he might as well die of embarrassment now rather than later.

Ashton tips his head back to laugh, arms crossing over his chest. “I had a threesome with another dude once,” Ashton says, and Luke can’t help it as his eyes blow wide in shock. “Never touched him, though. I wanted to, but it was too risky.”

Luke nods as he processes this new information, his chest going a little tight at the thought of Ashton with someone else. Ashton’s his own person, and Luke has no ownership over him, but there’s something inside of Luke telling him to stride forward and kiss every trace of everyone else from Ashton’s body. Instead he stays hovering on the spot as Ashton stares at him, perhaps expecting an answer from him, too.

So Luke gives it to him.

“I’ve never,” he chokes out. “Nothing.”

Ashton’s lips purse in quiet contemplation before he smiles, but he doesn’t say anything more on the subject. Pushing himself off the counter, he nudges Luke gently back towards the living-room, insisting on making him a cup of tea while he gets something to eat. Luke goes, but he can’t help but keep his head tilted back, watching Ashton shift around his kitchen out of the corner of his eye, a certain calmness crashing down over him in waves.

*

Ashton is lying on his back, head propped up on Luke’s thigh and chin grazing his chest as he absentmindedly drums his fingers against his chest. They’re out in the garden again, and they’ve been here since the moment Ashton trooped in from the studio, grumpy and fatigued. He’s a little calmer now, sighing into the touch of Luke’s fingertips massaging into his scalp and closing his eyes against the last of the sun.

“Henrik gave me some of the initial mixes today,” Ashton says suddenly. He tilts his head back to look directly up at Luke. “Want to hear them?”

Luke doesn’t, but he finds himself trailing upstairs after Ashton anyway, getting out his laptop and letting Ashton log on to his email. He sits up against the headboard as he waits, winding and unwinding the wire of his headphones around his finger, internally working on what face he’s going to pull when he listens to the music Ashton and Calum have been making. In reality it swings from placid to concentrated frown, music blaring loud in his ears as Ashton watches with his legs crossed and the skin of his thumb caught between his teeth. The music is—different. Calum is almost rapping in some parts. A little bewildered, Luke throws Ashton a cautious thumbs-up when the first one finishes.

Ashton pauses between songs. “What do you think?” he asks. “Be honest.”

“It’s different,” he answers slowly, because it’s the only honest opinion he has. It’s not bad, just different. Human beings aren’t designed to welcome change. “It’s definitely not ours,” he says before he can stop himself, because obviously it’s not theirs. It’s not 5 Seconds of Summer. Luke made sure of that. “Should be sick live, though,” he adds, if only just to see Ashton smile, the confidence returning to his features.

“That’s exactly what I thought! Listen to this one, it’s a bit slower,” Ashton says.

True to his word, the next one is a little slower, a little more guitar-driven. It feels oddly familiar, like something Luke might’ve tapped out on the shower wall or saved on his phone in a moment of inspiration. His mouth wraps around the lyrics like a song he’s not heard in years, and by the time the chorus comes around for the last time, he’s muttering the words under his breath, eyes transfixed on the small space between Ashton’s knee and his own thigh.

“I like this one,” he says, and it’s the truth. He pulls out both earbuds in an attempt to shake the déjà vu creeping up his spine.

“I thought you might.”

Luke stares at Ashton for a moment longer before muttering for him to play the next song. Despite his sourness, Luke sits through another couple of songs before insisting he doesn’t want to spoil the album for himself. The disappointment on Ashton’s face is fleeting, disappearing as quickly as it arrives, and soon the laptop is abandoned by the side of the bed and Ashton’s head is on Luke’s chest, playing idly with the chain of his necklace.  

“We should hang out. Me, you and Calum,” Ashton says.

Luke stiffens. “Does he know?”

“Know what?” Ashton asks, lifting his head.

“That you’re here,” Luke says, stretching his arm out over Ashton’s back and resting his hand right above his backside.

“Dunno,” he says, dropping his head back down, this time running his thumb over the small pendant of Luke’s necklace. When he picks it up between his thumb and forefinger, Luke can feel the tiny links of the chain cutting into the back of his neck, a tension building in the silver. “So, would you be up for it?”

Luke chews on the insides of his cheeks, eyes on where his fingers disturb the material of Ashton’s t-shirt. “I don’t know,” he says faintly.

Inside, his stomach turns with the memory of the incandescent anger burning in Calum’s eyes as his body tensed and Luke shrunk pitifully low under his glare. Calum had been _mad_ at him. Properly mad. Ashton had been more wounded, and Michael had seen it coming, but Calum had been mad. They’ve never fought with each other before—and they didn’t, thankfully—but Luke remembers feeling the metallic taste of blood fill his mouth as he imagined Calum landing a punch right to his jaw.

It was wishful thinking on his part to think the separation would be sealed with a fist, when instead what they got was months of endless silence, each moment more painful than the last.

“I think it’d be good for you.”

“Good for me?”

“Good for you both,” Ashton corrects himself. “Come on,” he says, shifting on top of Luke, thighs bracketing his hips. Ashton’s face looms over him. “You know as much as he does that this is all bullshit. You’re best mates, Luke.”

Luke tilts his head slightly as Ashton ducks to kiss his jaw.

Despite his fear of facing Calum again, he can’t deny he misses him like hell. He can’t deny that at the end of another failed relationship, all he wanted to do was call Calum and get absolutely shitfaced with him until he couldn’t feel the heartbreak anymore. He can’t deny that the memories of being squashed up in Calum’s bedroom with a half-written song between them, dreaming of touring the world one day, were one of the few things that kept him going for as long as he did.

Dragging those dreams down with him was never part of the plan.

“I don’t know,” he repeats up at the ceiling, hand now clutching tight in the fabric of Ashton’s t-shirt.

“Just think about it, okay?” Ashton says, quietly, hovering just above him, their noses almost touching.

It’s Luke that moves first to lean in, Ashton’s name coming out as more of a breath than a word. He keeps his mouth closed but his lips pursed, kissing Ashton with a gentleness that feels almost foreign, his head just lifting of the pillow. Ashton helps him, sneaking a hand around the back of his head and cradling his skull like a baby, pulling Luke towards him, keeping them locked together by the mouth.

It doesn’t stay this way. Luke’s almost incapable of keeping his tongue to himself, licking the wet inside edge of Ashton’s lip until he lets him in. This makes Ashton laugh, but then he’s kissing Luke back even harder, forcing him down, trapping him between the sheets and his warm body. Luke can feel a familiar warmth building at the back of his neck, traveling down his chest and pooling in his stomach, and by the hard press of Ashton’s crotch against his, he knows Ashton can feel it too.

“Fuck,” Ashton groans, pulling away slightly. “Can I—?” he begins, moving backwards, a hand grabbing at the hem of Luke’s t-shirt and yanking at it sharply.

Five minutes later, Luke finds himself naked and hard against Ashton’s thigh, sweaty and spit-slick hand wrapped around Ashton’s cock. Ashton is a little more hesitant, knuckles grazing Luke’s cock as he rubs against his thigh and sucks on the juncture of his neck, but soon works up the courage to palm at Luke firmly, and that alone is enough for him. Luke’s wanted Ashton’s hands on him for what seems like forever, and reality is much better than fantasy.

Luke comes embarrassing quick, his grip on Ashton’s cock going slack for a moment before working with renewed vigour. Only after he’s come does the ache in wrist and bicep appear, slowing him down once again until Ashton wraps his hand around his, moving it up and down his cock, muttering for him to go quicker. When Ashton comes, it’s with a cry that Luke just about manages to catch in his mouth, kiss fierce and clumsy, his beard dragging against Ashton’s face.

“That should’ve been _way_ more awkward,” Luke says, and Ashton’s laughter is nothing more than a low rumble in his throat.

*

They slip further into a routine, and Luke crawls out from something much deeper. 

They’re on their way to Ashton’s house, sat in the car at a red light while Green Day blares from the speakers. It makes Luke feel oddly young again, memories of sitting in the front of his mum’s car, squawking along to the radio with the other three in the back, his mum shaking her head at their ridiculousness. He also remembers being in Ashton’s first car, somehow almost always managing to plead his way into the passenger’s side as Michael and Calum grumped and moaned, calling out Ashton’s favouritism.

“—and after that we’ll definitely be going back to Australia for some shows,” Ashton is saying in a lull between songs, unable to curb a childlike enthusiasm. “Still got those bloody auditions to do, mind.”

Luke hums, hands tight on the wheel. He’s been thinking a lot about that one song, running over and over in his head where he remembers it from. Maybe he doesn’t, though. Maybe Ashton came home one day and drummed his fingers along the countertop, singing quietly under his breath. That could be it, but it had been too clear, too familiar. He thinks about asking Ashton where the song comes from, what’s the meaning behind it, but he’s done asking questions that he might not want to hear the answers to.

There’s something eerie about Ashton’s house, how it lies empty with the garden dying from neglect. Luke fiddles with his sunglasses as he peers around, wondering off from where Ashton has disappeared down the hall and out of sight. The silence accentuates the creak of the floorboards beneath his boots as he walks, following him around like a soundtrack as he snoops.

It’s purely by chance that he ends up in Ashton’s practice room.

It’s dark inside the room, soundproofed by foam tiles and empty but for a drum kit and an old acoustic guitar on a stand. Luke bypasses the guitar, not giving it a second glance, and heads straight for Ashton’s drums, knee bumping the snare as he sits. Sitting down behind the drums is decidedly less intimidating than the prospect of picking up the guitar across the room, he thinks, plucking up a pair of sticks and giving the crash a gentle tap, the sound emitting like glitter, bright like the way he knows Ashton likes.

Luke plays out a simple rudiment on the snare. It’s the same rudiment that Ashton plays before a show, and Luke remembers the sound of his sticks hitting against any surface he deemed suitable. He hadn’t ever paid much attention to it, too hyped or focused on his own routine to care, but he imagines it’s what got Ashton going, wrists warming up. When he’s sure he won’t lose it, he plays the rudiment faster, and when that becomes commonplace, he plays off the snare and onto the cymbal in front of him.

It’s no surprise that all the noise he’s making attracts Ashton into the practice room. He saunters in leisurely, arms tucked over his chest and carefully shuts the door behind him, trapping the sound in the small room. He looks caught somewhere between proud and impressed, lips slowly spreading to reveal a toothy grin.

Luke stops. “I know,” he says, reaching out to stop the echo of the cymbal, “I’m dope.”

“And modest.”

Luke hums. “Come sit on my lap.”

“I don’t think that’d be a good idea,” Ashton says, laughing, but he crosses the room and stands behind Luke, front of his body flush against the back of his.

Luke can feel the warmth of his palms where they rest on his shoulders through the denim of his jacket. He tips his head back, scratchy line of his throat accentuated by the stretch and too tempting for Ashton not to slide a hand up, forcing him further back. A shiver of vulnerability starts from the small of his back and travels all the way up his spine, rendering him boneless and pliable, the blunt press of Ashton’s fingertips in his jaw the only thing keeping his head from rolling onto his shoulder.

“Want to learn something?”

Swallowing hard, Luke nods, slowly freeing himself from Ashton’s grasp and getting back to his feet. Once he’s up, Ashton pulls him in for a quick kiss, taking the drumsticks from his hands without him even noticing. He smirks as he sits, twirling one of the sticks between his fingers because he’s a show off.

“Okay so I totally stole this from Chris Pennie,” Ashton says, and Luke nods, pretending to know who that is. “It drops on the tom on the first beat and kicks in on the three of the beat, on the snare,” he’s saying as Luke watches on, hands on his hips.

It’s mostly gibberish to him, but there’s something about Ashton’s enthusiasm that makes Luke smile. Ashton loves music. He loves making music. Luke remembers the guilt flooding through him at the thought that he’d taken that away from Ashton, from all of them. It wasn’t exactly a secret that the band meant everything to Ashton, the tattoo on the side of his wrist a constant reminder, ink a blur to Luke as his arms continue to move.

“—just watch you don’t end up leading with your left after that. Got it?” Ashton says, tilting his head back to look at Luke. He frowns. “Were you listening?”

“Not really,” he admits. “I was thinking about that time you kicked off because you thought the metronome was off,” he lies, but it makes Ashton smile, so it’s worth the momentary guilt.

“It was!”

Luke scoffs, teasing. “Bullshit.”

“Believe what you want, Hemmings,” Ashton says with a dismissive wave of a drumstick. “There was no way that was going at one-forty,” he mutters a little quieter, and Luke almost bursts out laughing at his irrational bitterness. He doesn’t really feel like laughing when Ashton begins to play the beginning of ‘Castaway’ with rough execution. “Gotta keep it fresh in the mind,” he shouts over the noise, and then everything is quiet again. “Just in case.”

Luke nods numbly. “Just in case,” he parrots.

Luke has a dream about being on stage that night. It’s pulsing and electric, the crowd moving together like a wave in a storm. He can feel the bass thrumming through the floor, his body, his fingers as they slide easily over the fretboard, the movements familiar but always enthralling. He’s standing in the middle as always, the frontman and lead singer, leading the crowd in the only teasing and firm way he knows how, but still the soft target of Michael and Calum’s banter as always.

Everything’s alright when he’s on stage. For a while, nobody cares about all the bullshit going on around them that doesn’t even really matter anyway. No one in the crowd cares what he’s said or done or didn’t do when he’s got them eating out of the palm of his hand. He misses that. He misses so many people loving him all at once and being able to feel it in the very centre of his bones.

He wakes up before the encore begins, blinking into the dark. He sighs as he shuffles forward towards Ashton, tucking himself up behind him and nuzzling into the back of his neck. Ashton’s not the only thing he’s been missing.

*

The auditions went well, Ashton tells while he strokes his back, although they turned out to be slightly pointless, he and Calum eventually opting for the same group of guys that had helped them in the studio. Luke hums into Ashton’s chest, not really listening, not really caring. He’s been clinging to Ashton from the moment he got home and joined him in bed, tired, and he’s wriggled so far down the bed to rest his cheek over Ashton’s heart that his feet hang out of bed, exposed to the cool air.

He never wants to let him go. Shutting his eyes, he knows he’s going to have to.

*

It’s not until Luke’s certain that he can have it that he starts thinking about fucking Ashton, about Ashton fucking him. It’s an easy place to wonder to when he’s jerking off lazily alone, fingers creeping and rubbing against the skin behind his balls. Buying lube and fucking himself with a few fingers is the natural progression, and one evening he tells Ashton that there’s lube in the nightstand, should he want or need it. By now, he and Ashton have tried most things, enjoyed them enough to do them again and quashed any doubts they might’ve had regarding the extent of their attraction to each other.

He’s fresh out of the shower and damp all over the next time he thinks about it, two lube-slick fingers squirmed awkwardly in his ass. He thinks about fucking Ashton on his back, whining into his mouth as he reaches around and grips tightly onto his hair like he does when Luke’s sucking his cock. He doubts their first time together will be like that, though. He knows he’ll be the one to get fucked first because he likes what he’s doing to himself right now and Ashton has a slightly more tender veil of masculinity to push through before he’d allow Luke to fuck him. That’s alright for him, though. He’ll take Ashton whatever way he can have him.

Fucked out, Luke fails to differentiate between the Ashton squirming beneath him in his fantasies and the Ashton that comes walking through the door and joins him on the bed. The slide of his hand over his chest doesn’t feel real for a moment, but when it does, and Luke comes back to himself, he slows the thrust of his fingers and can’t bring himself to be embarrassed.

“That feel good?” Ashton asks, hand splaying across Luke’s stomach. Luke can’t speak, so he nods and the back of his neck begins to tingle. “Want me to—?” 

“Yeah,” he says, his voice small.

Ashton sits up a moment later and rids himself his clothes down to his boxers as Luke watches, head back in the pillow, his fingers still moving slow and shallow, the wet sound of lube accompanying the squeal of bedsprings as Ashton moves between Luke’s legs. He just sits there for a moment, perched up on his knees, before he reaches out to knock Luke’s hand away from his cock and replace it with his own. He jerks him leisurely, hand rougher and larger, and Luke’s free hand curls into a tight fist over his chest, teeth sunk into his bottom lip.

Luke keeps his eyes on the ceiling. “You should fuck me this time.”

“Are you sure?” Ashton asks.

“No, I’m joking,” he says, and Ashton pulls on his cock slightly harder as some sort of pleasant punishment. “Fuck! Yeah, fuck me. If you want.”

Ashton falls forward onto Luke, trapping his arms between them as he plants a kiss on the side of Luke’s mouth. Luke worms his free arm out and moves it up to cup the back of Ashton’s neck, both the skin of his palm and of Ashton’s neck clammy and gross already. Ashton’s own hands are cradling his face, warm and firm as his thumb gently caresses the line of his cheekbone, delicate as a lover.

By the time they break apart, Luke’s chest is moving quick and erratic. His fingers have slipped out of his ass, hand moving up to rest on his hip as a shock of tight pain bursts through his palm. It’s cramp, he thinks, and not the phantom sting of a guitar string. He stays exactly like this as the weight of Ashton’s body leaves his, the sudden coolness of the air around him causing goose bumps to break out all over his damp body.

“First my fingers, then my cock,” Ashton says, nodding, then leans over to grab the lube from where it sits open on the nightstand. “Pull your legs up for me?”

Luke can’t help the blush that breaks out over his chest as he slips his hands behind the bend of his knees and pulls them back, wet lube on one hand making it harder than the other. When his thighs press almost all the way back, his stomach folds, hard cock resting against it. His gaze flickers from there to the trail of hair disappearing down into the waistband of Ashton’s boxers, at the obvious bulge growing in them.

Ashton reaches into his boxers as he pushes his fingers into Luke’s ass, and Luke’s mouth goes dry at the sight, his eyes glassy at the stretch he’s no longer in control of. Ashton’s always been a little less careful than Luke had imagined him to be, stretching and twisting his fingers with a concentrated frown plastering across his features. There’s something methodical about the way he’s just working his fingers in and out of Luke, like his only aim is to get him loose enough to fuck. Luke digs his nails into the skin on his knee at the thought.

“How do you want it?” Ashton asks, taking out his fingers with a gross slurp of lube.

“Hands and knees,” he answers, surprising Ashton slightly, but he goes along with it, allowing Luke enough space to get into his desired position.

“Just let me get a—” Ashton says, and then there’s the tell-tale sound of a condom wrapper being ripped open. “Gotta be safe,” he’s muttering as he rolls it on and adds more lube.

For a moment, as Luke waits with his hands fisted into the pillowcase and his eyes on the headboard, Ashton does nothing but slide his cock between Luke’s cheeks, making some odd little humming noise. Luke is impatient, but Ashton is not so quick to relent to the indignant whine and slight arch of his back he tries to use to hurry this up. Instead, Ashton folds himself over Luke’s back, the sharp, awkward press of his ribcage uncomfortable where the bone digs into Luke’s skin.

“Come on,” Luke whines. “Fuck me.”

Luke’s prepared, so it’s not sore as Ashton presses in, but it is weird. Weird and warm, like Ashton’s fingers but he can feel a strange sensation building up at the base of his spine. Maybe it does hurt a bit, he thinks, his body tense and tight. He doesn’t even realise he’s been sucking his stomach in until Ashton reaches around to have a quick palm of his cock.

He’s gone soft.

“Are you alright?” Ashton asks, keeping his body still. He’s got one hand on Luke’s hip and the other on the curve of his backside, fingers sinking deep into the soft flesh. “Do you not like it?”

“You’re not even all the way in yet,” Luke grumps, trying to push back but Ashton’s hands stopping him. In all honesty, he’s been too preoccupied on how weird it feels to have Ashton’s cock up his ass to focus on his own. “Come on, Ash. I’ll tell you—I’ll tell you to stop.”

“Alright, alright,” he says, then proceeds to bottom out at an almost torturous pace. Luke’s almost glad he chose to do it this way; he’d probably reach out and strangle Ashton if he’d been on his back instead.

“Just give me—” Luke clears his throat, clenching his fists into the pillowcase. Ashton’s big, and he feels even bigger in his ass, touching and filling him everywhere. Luke puffs out his cheeks, wondering when this is going to start feeling as good as those guys in pornos make it look. “Alright. I’m good. You can—”

Like an overenthusiastic teenage boy, Ashton pulls back and thrusts forward almost instantly, sending Luke jolting forward and almost headbutting the headboard.

“Holy shit, not so quick.”

“Sorry,” Ashton apologises, leaning down to press wet, hot kisses on Luke’s shoulder, letting his tongue drag against his skin between each one.

The whole thing turns out awkward and uncomfortable, but Luke doesn’t think he’s ever felt any better. He doesn’t reach down and touch his cock because he knows it’s no use; his mind is too unsettled, his body too tense for him to even think about getting hard. He does let himself think about how Ashton’s going to get him off afterwards, when he’s empty and twitching and wanting Ashton again. He’ll be sure to tell Ashton how well he’s doing, how good he’s fucked him afterwards, too, he thinks, because he is. He’s so fucking good at fucking him. He finds Luke’s prostate intermittently, his own body too excited to settle into a pattern despite how many times Luke tells him it’s _there, right there_.

“Do you like it?” Ashton is then asking in his ear. Ashton’s close, Luke can tell, his voice wound tight in his throat and ready to lash out. “Do you like getting fucked?”

It should sound ridiculous, but it stirs something hot in Luke’s stomach. “Yeah. Yeah, I like it.”

“Yeah?” Ashton pants, and Luke nods as he whines. Ashton’s body is flush against Luke’s back again, arms wrapped around his chest and face hidden in the curve of his neck. “You’re so good, Luke. You feel so good.”

“So do you,” he says back faintly. He thinks about adding how big he feels, how good he’s fucking him, but the words die in his mouth before he can say them.

“Fuck, Luke—” he groans, teeth grazing Luke’s shoulder, and then he’s coming, hiccupping out breaths by his ear. In his orgasmic delirium, he doesn’t stop thrusting into Luke, hips continuing to jerk forward even as Luke feels Ashton’s cock soften and twitch inside of him. “Jesus,” he’s whispering, muffled by Luke’s skin.

Luke’s legs and arms go from underneath him, bringing Ashton down with him. Slack and open, Ashton’s mouth rests on the juncture of Luke’s neck, sucking a bruise into his skin as he doesn’t move from where he’s collapsed.

Luke clears his throat. “Can you—can you pull out now?” he asks, hot cheek against the pillow.

“Sure,” Ashton says. “Then I’ll get you off, yeah? Make you come?”

Luke mewls as Ashton’s soft cock slips from his ass, trailing friction-warm lube down his thigh. It hurts a little more now, but it’s still more weird than anything. He clenches his hole around nothing as he lies there, Ashton shifting around on wobbly knees behind him, pulling and tying off the condom. Only when he feels the touch of Ashton’s fingertips against his hip does he ungracefully flip onto his back, face contorting at the dull pain in his lower back.

“You okay?” Ashton asks, crawling over him.

Luke smiles. “I will be after you suck my dick,” he says, curling a hand around the back of Ashton’s neck and pulling him down for a kiss. As much as he loves kissing Ashton, he wants his cock sucked more, so pushes on Ashton’s shoulder, encouraging him down his body.

Lying between his legs, Ashton takes Luke’s cock into his spit-wet hand. He jerks him slowly and stares at him, watching his face, nothing really changing in his expression. Luke tilts his head to the side as he stares back, following the movement of Ashton’s wrist as he absentmindedly begins to rub a hand over the top of his chest, the links of his chain rolling underneath his palm as the pendant twirls amongst the light dusting of hair on the centre of his chest. He breathes heavily as he waits, still wriggling around a little at the discomfort in his ass which Ashton doesn’t fail to notice.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks before ducking to press a kiss to the soft, baby-soft inside of Luke’s thigh.

Luke’s hand presses harder on his chest as he rubs, leaving a dull red mark behind. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he bites.

Ashton hums, pulling the skin of Luke’s cock back to press his thumb against the slit. “Your cock always looks smaller in my hand,” he says nonchalantly.

As his gaze narrows on Ashton, the other boy doesn’t look at him, but at his cock. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and it makes his heart beat slightly faster. “Just—just suck it,” he says weakly, thrusting his hips up into Ashton’s hand.

Mercifully, Ashton shifts forward and licks flat over the underside of Luke’s cock, slow, just to be annoying. Luke can’t even bring himself to be annoyed, throwing his head back and closing his eyes, letting his mind focus on this and only this. He’s going to come if Ashton has to force it out of him.

“Can’t believe you take cock so well,” Ashton says, the hotness of his breath sticking to the wet patch he’s left on Luke’s cock. Before Luke can register it, Ashton’s wedges his other hand beneath his ass, thumb pressing against his hole. He’s still open, still loose, and if Ashton wanted to fuck him with his fingers again, he could. Luke would let him.

“Shame your mouth doesn’t,” he challenges childishly, eyes still closed.

“Shame,” Ashton mutters, then leans in again to take the top of Luke’s cock into his mouth, smiling around him in victory as he lets out a pathetic little whine. As they’ve both found out, blow jobs are much easier received than given. Luke isn’t that big, but he feels huge and heavy in Ashton’s mouth, the head brushing the back of his throat and making him choke. Tears well in the corner of his eyes as he pulls off to gag properly, drool dripping onto the back of his other hand that’s not wrapped loosely around the base of Luke’s cock.

“You don’t—have to do that,” Luke says, his voice coming out like he’s miles away. “I was kidding. Just—”

“Luke,” Ashton says. “It’s all good. I’m good.” Ashton pumps Luke in his fist. “You deserve it,” he’s saying, breath ghosting over Luke’s balls. “You were so good,” he continues, beginning to suck on them. “Took it so good.”

Luke’s breath stutters as he feels Ashton against his cock, his balls, his hole. His hands come up to cover his face like he’s about to scream, everything just a little too much to take. His cock twitches against Ashton’s tongue as he licks over him again, and he can’t help the long, drawn-out moan that he lets out as Ashton closes his mouth around him.

He’s going to come. He can feel it.

“Ash,” he pants. “I think I—”

Ashton pulls off his cock with a comical pop. They’re not quite at the stage of coming in each other’s mouths yet. “Gonna come for me?” he asks, moving all the way up to press his face into Luke’s neck, his hand still wrapped awkwardly around him. “Come on,” he says, prying Luke’s hands from his face, “let me see you.”

“Didn’t get to see you,” Luke mutters petulantly as he thrusts into Ashton’s fist properly, bum lifting off the bed.

He’s there, so Luke bites down on Ashton’s lip as he comes, cock kicking out come in small spurts, dragging it out until he’s almost crying into Ashton’s mouth. Ashton kisses him to calm him, wiping his hand on his own chest before bringing it to rake through Luke’s damp hair, pushing the curls off his red and sweaty face and then kissing every inch of it.

It takes them a while to settle.

Luke’s still a little unsteady as he climbs up onto the window seat, hiding himself in the folds of his hoodie as he leans against the window. He’s tied his hair up so the coolness of the window pane is unopposed against the warm skin of his temple. He sighs as he shuts his eyes, the sound of Ashton pottering around in the kitchen making him smile for no reason. It’s been a while since he’s done that. Luke’s a lot more like his old, happy self with Ashton around.

“Hey, don’t fall asleep on me,” Ashton says, holding out a cup of tea.

The sleeves of Luke’s hoodie fall down his wrists as he reaches up to take it carefully. “Thanks, Ash,” he says, still smiling dumbly as he watches Ashton sit down across from him with his own mug. Ashton’s toes are freezing as they wiggle against his, making Luke bite down on the edge of his mug as he grins, skin around his eyes crinkling. He can’t stop smiling.

*

“Do you want to have dinner with me and Calum tonight?” Ashton asks out of the blue.

Luke pauses where he sits, hands behind his head as he slips his hair into a bun. It’s too warm to have his hair down, sitting in a mess of curls on his neck, damp and sticky from the heat. He’s already abandoned his shirt, down to nothing but his bare feet and shorts, and the fabric on the back of the chair is beginning to irritate his skin. He lowers his arms slowly, squinting at Ashton through his sunglasses.

He doesn’t dismiss the question out of hand. Instead, he plays with his fingers, frowning down at them as he sucks on his bottom teeth. He flicks his eyes up to Ashton after a moment, wondering if he’d be overly disappointed if he said no, he doesn’t want to. He probably would be, but it’s not like Luke’s not used to disappointing him. It’s only different now because they’re fucking.

“I don’t know,” he says, long and drawn out, like it’ll somehow lessen the blow.

Ashton slumps back in his seat, shaking his head, defeated. “Is that all you know how to say?” he asks, falling well short of being scathing. Instead, Ashton sounds desperate and downtrodden, and it punctures a hole somewhere in Luke’s lungs, making it even harder to breathe in the humid air.

“Sorry,” he mutters, but he’s not entirely sure why. 

Ashton tilts his head back and sighs. “Whatever.”

Desperate, Luke jumps to catch the conversation from slipping out of his reach. “I do want to, but—” he says, which is true, and he’s sure Ashton can tell by the way he lowers his head to look at him again. Luke scratches his nails down his forearm as he thinks, red jumping to the face of his light skin, nasty and hot against his palm when he covers it from Ashton’s gaze. “I don’t know,” he says, and it slips out so pitifully that he even gets mad at himself this time, screwing his eyes shut to see through the tangle of thoughts keeping him from seeing things clearly.

“Hey,” Ashton says softly, his hand suddenly on Luke’s. He doesn’t dare look. “You need to stop working yourself up over nothing.”

It doesn’t feel like nothing, but deep down, Luke knows Ashton is right. Being alone for so long has allowed him to exaggerate everything until it’s so warped from reality that he’s not even sure what’s real anymore. In all likelihood, Calum doesn’t hate him because he never really did. Just like Ashton. Just like Michael. A lot of people hate him, but not the ones that matter most—and that’s his problem; he let the opinions of people that didn’t matter get the best of him.

“I know,” Luke says quietly, opening his eyes.

The corners of Ashton’s lips quirk up. “That’s a start,” he says, pressing his palm down onto the back of Luke’s hand. 

Later that night, Luke feels sick with the tension strung tight in his gut, his body burning up and head woozy like he’s fallen asleep in the sun. He’s so hot Ashton’s hands feel icy on his skin through his clothes when he touches him, trying to get him to settle as they wait for their Uber. Luke can’t, his insides rattling around like everything inside of him as been broken up and jumbled together, leaving him aching and uncomfortable, completely unable to move where he’s slumped against Ashton.

It doesn’t get any better on the way to the restaurant, but Ashton’s hands become heavier, more secure, thumb moving is slow circles over Luke’s knee. Luke shoots him a weak smile, and he tries to keep it on his face until he can hide it behind a menu, head hung low.

“Cal’s running a bit late,” Ashton tells him, his phone set on the table, the screen lighting up and buzzing every so often. Luke glances down at the prominent box-shape on his thigh where his own phone sits in his pocket, and he tries to remember the last time someone other than Ashton called him. Probably Ben, he thinks, the faint remnants of a quick conversation cutting through the melted sludge of his thoughts.

Calum being late allows for Luke to have a drink to settle his nerves, alcohol loosening the tension in his stomach and jaw, his voice ringing louder across the table. He’s a lot calmer by the time Calum comes strolling over, cool as you like, arms opening to embrace Ashton. Luke doesn’t even think as he springs out of his seat, thighs bumping the table and disturbing the cutlery, pulling Calum into the same half-hug as Ashton had done.

When he’s about to pull away, Calum catches him, smacking a hand on his back. “Good to see you, man,” he says close by his ear, no dishonesty or malice in his voice. “It’s been too long.”

Luke’s not entirely sure what he’s been expecting, but a monumental weight feels like it’s been lifted from his shoulders. He sags as he stands. “Too long,” he agrees, pulling away and falling back into his seat.

It’s awkward, a little stilted, but it’s not as awful as Luke had envisioned. Ashton keeps the conversation plodding along as they eat, mouth running on overdrive as Luke keeps his eyes on Calum. He looks as he’s always done, his hair in thick, tight curls and his cheeks full and healthy. He’s been going to the gym, too, arms threatening to burst through his shirt, and the faint trace of jealousy left over from when Luke was eighteen swells at the back of his mind.

They’re just about done when Ashton unceremoniously announces that he’s got to piss, and there’s something devious in the look he shoots Luke as he shuffles around the table. Luke stares after him, helpless, like he’s the last lifebuoy at sea, gently bobbing further and further away from him as the current drags him down.

“So, how’ve you been?” Calum asks, elbows on the table and fingers linked.

Luke shuffles around in his seat a little, nodding and mumbling about how everything is fine.

“I’m not buttoned up the back, you know,” Calum says.

“Huh?” Luke breathes.

“I’m not stupid,” Calum says, leaning forward and twisting the ring around his pinky. It’s not as big or flashy as the ones Luke likes to wear, but it looks nice on Calum, catching in the low, warm light of the restaurant.

“I know what that means,” Luke mutters, mutely offended.

“Then we can cut through the bullshit. What’s up with you and Ashton?”

“Nothing.” He says it too quick; he can feel the heat of his lie build up on his cheeks as Calum quirks an eyebrow up at him. “I mean, he’s just being a good mate.”

“Ah,” Calum says, nodding, “he’s being a good mate. Is that why he’s never home and drives your car to the studio?”

Luke’s throat constricts, strangled by the webs of own lies. He’s never thought about anyone knowing what they were doing; until now, he’s been perfectly fine with playing boyfriends behind closed doors. Something about Calum knowing—suspecting something—makes it all feel a little more real.

It’s fucking terrifying.

“We—I.” Luke’s tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, his mouth suddenly dry. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the breaths he’s not taking. “He’s been staying at mine,” he blurts, keeping his voice small. “That’s it—that’s all it is. He’s staying at mine. He said—he said he needed a place to stay for a few days and—”

“And what? He just never left? Thought you might as well cosy up and suck each other’s dicks?”

“Can you not fucking say that here,” Luke hisses, ducking his head and peering around as Calum begins to laugh. “What are you fucking laughing at?”

Calum’s cheeks are red and glowing, eyes so dark Luke can barely see them. “You’re so easy to wind up.”

Luke scowls at Calum as he at least now begins to have the decency to cover his mouth and suppress his laughter. A tremor remains rippling through his chest as Ashton returns, not so subtly brushing his hand over the top of Luke’s shoulder. Luke keeps his eyes on Calum, the action almost sending him into another fit of hysterics, prompting a questioning look from Ashton between the two of them.

“Did I miss something?” he asks.

“None of your business,” Luke and Calum say simultaneously, and Luke can’t help the high-pitched giggle that escapes him at Ashton’s overly offended, “Hey!” that follows.

The joy that erupts in Luke’s chest is overwhelming, sending him into a giddy stupor that still hasn’t subsided by the time he and Ashton make it home. Beneath it is still that underlying fear of being found out, but it pales in comparison to the happiness making his voice shake, his steps all that bouncier as he pulls Ashton upstairs. Nothing’s changed, a loud voice replays over and over again in his head, the touch of Calum’s warm hands around him so blissfully pleasant as the hugged goodbye. The touch now belongs to Ashton, growing warmer and warmer as Luke’s clothes hit the floor and his back hits the bedsheets.

“Told you it would be good for you,” Ashton says, perched up on an elbow and looking down at Luke.

Breathing disturbed by his orgasm, Luke makes a lazy grab for Ashton’s shoulder as his other hand trails through the come on his stomach. Ashton takes the hint and leans over him, tongue out, and presses it to Luke’s before kissing him properly.

*

Photographs of the three of them leaving the restaurant together begin circling very quickly after that. Luke chews on his nails as he scrolls through Twitter, the pictures weirdly tame compared to those of him stumbling out of nightclubs, bleary-eyed and ten feet apart from some girl he may or may not have been going home with. He cringes at the memory as he taps on the replies to the posts, suddenly met with screeds and screeds of conspiracy theories and improper use of caps lock. He smiles at a few of them, his thumb hovering over the like button, but stiffening into submission when he realises all the rumours it would fuel.

He’s alone for the day, Ashton and Calum somewhere across town trying to sort out a rehearsal space. Nostalgia expands and contracts in his chest, leaving him sore and bitter, pissed off and betrayed for the first time in weeks. His hand comes down heavy on the kitchen counter, knuckles turning white as he clutches the edge, centring himself before he goes off to do something stupid. He could get back easily at Ashton—he could go out and fuck someone else, boy or girl. It’s not like he’s not done it before. It’s not like Ashton said he couldn’t.

Luke squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head. No. That’s not the man he is anymore.

He feels heavy and disgusting as he drags himself to the storage cupboard like a man possessed. With a grunt, he pulls a guitar amp from the clutter, muscles straining, and lets it thump on the floor in front of him. “This is so fucking dumb,” he mutters to himself, wiping the dust from his hand on the leg of his boxers before picking the amp up by the handle and taking it into the living-room, power lead swinging down and repeatedly banging into his shin.

That’s the easy part done, he thinks.

Luke’s hasn’t stepped inside the small storage room where his guitars are kept for months. It feels weird going inside, guitars hanging by their necks from the walls like warning signs, glittery and smooth in the summer sun spilling through the window. He turns in a slow circle, looking at them all, trying to remember the feel of them, the sound of them, the first time he played them. By his sides, his fingers twitch, wanting to touch them all.

It’s the Gibson Les Paul that he ends up taking from the wall, the body lighter than he remembers. Nothing to be afraid of, he thinks, carrying it carefully as he grabs a jack lead and a pick from the mess of other gear he’s got in the room. He’s surprised Ashton hasn’t found his way in here, rooted out some strings from the chaos and restrung his acoustic that’s still in the living-room somewhere.

Because he’s a dumbarse, he plugs in his guitar after switching on the amp, causing a sharp bang to cut through the air and ring in his ears. He winces, rubbing at his ears, trying to shake the humming left reverberating around in his head before reaching for the guitar he’s left set on the couch.

Unlike before, there’s nothing odd about the way the guitar feels in his lap. His hand fits easily around the slim neck, the press of it against his abdomen like a lover’s embrace. Despite this, he can’t help the slight shake to his hands as he presses his fingers down on the strings, the sound of a guitar string snapping as clear in his mind as the bang from before. With the slightest tension running up his arm, he strums down, and the ugly, obnoxious crash of too much gain is music to his ears, distorted and watery, flooding through his house and leaking out into the world.

He’s rusty and hesitant as he begins to play, but the satisfaction of chords coming together is overwhelming. A smile twitches on his lips as he lets the sound peter out before grabbing his phone and searching up the chords to _Life is a Highway_. He’s got only the faintest recollection of playing the song after mistakenly thinking Rascal Flatts had written the song, Brian taking enormous offence to this and drunkenly forcing him to learn it so they could sing it together. Brian had suggested they form some double act paying homage to rock ‘n’ roll that night, and again when it was announced that 5SOS were going on hiatus.

Sometimes Luke wonders if the offer still stands.

He mucks around for the longest time, switching between random riffs to small chunks of old pop punk songs he first played as a kid. Halfway through a clunky rendition _Dysentery Gary_ , constantly having to tap his screen to keep it lit on the tabs and singing under his breath, Luke catches Ashton appear out of the corner of his eye, walking into the living-room with the biggest shit-eating grin he’s ever seen. Whatever the reason behind it, it fills Luke with a rejuvenated confidence, causing to pull his best cocky face and shout loud over the top of his guitar, placing particular emphasis on ‘ _I hate you all! Your mom’s a whore!_ ’ because he’s still a big child, apparently.

“Dude!” Ashton says, throwing himself down beside Luke and shoving his shoulder. “About fucking time.”

“Fuck off,” Luke says, but he’s smiling behind the hair that’s fallen into his face. Ashton reaches out, tucking it back behind his ear. As Luke turns his face into the palm Ashton slides over his cheek, guilt bubbles in his throat at the heat of his touch.

“I mean it, Luke.” Ashton’s voice sounds oddly stern. “I’m proud of you.” With that, Ashton slips his hand around the back of Luke’s neck and pulls him down low enough to place a kiss on his temple. He ducks his head down then, almost butting his forehead against Luke’s. “I mean it,” he repeats, then kisses him, body of Luke’s guitar pressing into his side as he leans towards him.

Luke nods, keeping quiet.

“So, wanna jam?” Ashton asks, grinning as he pulls back, a hand still playing fondly with Luke’s hair. “Or you could teach me a few things? Promise I’ll listen.”

Luke thinks it’s the least he could do.

*

It doesn’t exactly come as a shock to Luke that Ashton searches out some sort of clarity after a little while.

They’re sitting out in the garden again, right in the middle of a patch of small daisies. Ashton’s been plucking them from the ground for the last ten minutes and handing them over to Luke to make a small slice in the centre, his nails a little sharper. They’re making daisy chains. Luke had wrinkled his nose at the idea, but something about Ashton’s small spiel about making them with Lauren when he was younger shifts his attitude. This is also the first time in days that they’ve managed to spend some quality time together, Ashton’s schedule beginning to fill up with practices and meetings as Luke’s stays the same. He’s working on it, though, he’ll tell Ashton quietly before they go to bed. He’s working on it.

 “Is this how you thought this would be?” Ashton asks softly.

“What?” Luke says.

Ashton passes the stem of a daisy through the hole in another. “This,” he says, barely using his fingers to motion between them.

Luke leans back on the heels of his hands and purses his lips as he thinks, hard. “I never really—beyond, like, having sex. I never really thought about it,” he admits.

Ashton nods as he adds another daisy. “So, is that what you want? Just sex, I mean, because that’s cool if you just wanted to do gay shit with someone you felt comfortable with.”

“No,” he says, making Ashton look up from what he’s doing. “I like you. In like a proper gay way,” he explains, then frowns. “Know what I mean?”

Ashton’s eyes drop back down to the daises in his hand, smiling. “I like you in a proper gay way as well,” he says, and Luke almost kicks a foot out at him for being fucking annoying. “I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page.”

“What if I’d just wanted sex?” Luke asks, sitting forward again and tugging at the grass between his crossed legs. It’s not exactly a wild suggestion; Luke likes to use and be used, because it fuels his self-importance in the sickest way possible. He always likes to be loved, but that’s something entirely different.

“Then it would’ve been shit for me,” Ashton says. His voice is calm and easy, like he’s thought about having this conversation before. “You’ve got a great arse, though, so it would’ve been worth it.”

Luke mood catches somewhere between affronted and pleased. “So do you,” he mutters for lack of something better to say.

Ashton falls into a quiet trance, large, maladroit hands working around the fragile little flowers as carefully as he can muster. Luke watches him with his head cocked, absentmindedly trying to pick the grass wedged behind his nail as he does. He could watch Ashton for hours, however creepy that may be, and it takes some restraint not to just bowl him over and kiss the concentrated little frown off his face. Maybe he’ll do it when he’s done.

“Would you date me, then?” Ashton asks.

He’s shuffles closer and begins lifting the daisy chain he’s just finished, no clear expression on his face but concentration. Luke can feel some of the daisies along his hairline where Ashton is adjusting them cautiously, not wanting the links to break. His daisy chain has turned into a daisy crown; Luke imagines Ashton might have just underestimated the size of his big head.

“What do you mean?” he asks dumbly, eyes shifting over Ashton’s face. He can’t see anything beyond him. “Like—”

“I really like you,” Ashton says, sliding his hands down to curve his fingers on Luke’s cheeks. “And it’s fine if you don’t want, like, a label on it or anything, but I’d quite like to try.”

Luke closes his eyes, his heart stuck between a beat. A thousand thoughts batter through his mind, making him a little dizzy and uneasy, Ashton’s hands the only thinking keeping his head still. Solitude has made him selfish, so a strong part of Luke wants to shove Ashton away and save himself the hassle that always follows. An equally as strong part of him is already beginning to loosen its hold on his rational thoughts, letting them slip easy and free, allowing him to hurtle towards his trademark descent into blind, untameable love.

Luke opens and closes his mouth, words forming and dying. The truth is, deep down, Luke knows what he wants, and Ashton probably knows it too, but it’s the option with the most consequences, the most secrecy masquerading as privacy.

“Ash, I don’t—I’m not sure.” He opens his eyes when Ashton’s hands don’t slip from his face. “I want to,” he says quietly.

For the most part, Ashton’s face is entirely expressionless, but his eyes are warm, jumping around Luke’s features. “But?” he asks.

Luke closes his eyes again. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Say what?” Ashton asks, tilting his head to the side.

 _I’m a coward_.

It’s not like Ashton doesn’t know—of course he does. He’s told Luke to grow a pair more than once down the years. Luke slowly jerks his head out of Ashton’s hands and lowers it, crown of daisies safely caught in his curls. He feels like getting up and running away, doing something he’s good at, but his legs feel too heavy, and he’s run out on Ashton one too many times before.

“Nothing,” he says softly, then clears his throat. “Are you sure you want to?” he asks. “I’m not exactly…y’know.” Luke shrugs as he motions at himself. “I’ve hardly ever been boyfriend of the year.”

Ashton sighs. “If I cared about that, I wouldn’t be sitting here, would I?” he says. “I would’ve ran for the fucking hills.”

Luke squawks indignantly as he lunges to shove Ashton, who laughs as he gets pinned to the grass. Only when he’s calmed down a bit does he summon the strength to get him off and tackle him back, struggling to keep him down. All they need now is for Calum and Michael to join in, Luke thinks as he collapses down half on top of Ashton after a little while, exhausted. He hums where his face is smushed into the grass, Ashton’s hand sliding over his back.

“I’m sure,” Ashton says, “just to be clear.”

Luke curls his body further into Ashton’s, daises finally slipping from his head. He knows.

*

They make love for the first time that night.

Luke feels cheated, because he doesn’t realise it straightaway, doesn’t slow down his frantic hands to make it last as long as it should. Nothing in the way Ashton undresses him, lips never leaving the juncture of his neck, indicates that this time will be any different. Nothing about the way Ashton lies him down, flat on his back, and opens him up with his fingers, relentless and precise, pausing for just a short teasing press to his prostate, tells him this isn’t like before.

It blindsides him, taking his breath away like a punch to the chest.

“Fuck,” Luke breathes, his hand jerking his cock as his body tightened around Ashton’s fingers involuntarily. “Oh God.”

“So fucking tight,” Ashton mumbles, more to himself than to Luke. He slides his fingers almost all the way out before thrusting them back in, hand moving in the same, erratic motion. Luke cries out every time, cut-off and high, a small trickle of precome beginning to ooze its way down over his knuckles as his hand quickens over himself. “Wanna fuck you,” he says, and this time it’s definitely to Luke, his eyes flicking up to where Luke stares back at him, mouth open and chest heaving. “Can I?” he asks. “Can I fuck you, Luke?”

Luke tilts his head back into the pillow and nods.

Ashton’s fingers don’t leave his body at first, instead pressing in deeper, harder, until there’s a gentle shake in Ashton’s arm from the force he’s exerting. Luke practically howls, lifting a forearm to smack against his forehead, hand tight in a fist.

“Please,” he gasps, lifting his hips off the bed. “Just do it, Ash. Come on. Don’t make me wait.”

“Hey, don’t worry, I will,” he soothes, pressing a kiss to Luke’s knee to distract him from the uncomfortable sensation of his fingers leaving his ass. “I’ll fuck you nice and good.”

Luke’s body sinks into the sheets, his legs falling open for the time being. His hand continues to work on his cock as he watches Ashton through drooping eyes, faintly aware of him stretching over to the nightstand. “Wait,” he says, sluggishly throwing out the arm that’s been slung over his face, “just you,” he says, hoping Ashton understands, too embarrassed to ask for it explicitly.

“Are you sure?” he asks, stilling where he’s kneeling, a hand splayed wide on Luke’s thigh for balance. He doesn’t take much convincing, slinking back to his spot between Luke’s legs with just a simple nod. “Do you want it like this? On your back?” he asks, picking up the lube and lathering it over his cock.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Like this. So I can—I can see you when—”

Ashton cuts him off, leaning down and covering his mouth with his. It’s a sweet kiss, no tongue, and it reminds Luke of sitting in the bath that day, body frozen from the shock. He feels frozen again, trapped between the sheets and Ashton’s body, a large palm pressing steadily down on the centre of his chest, trapping the air in his lungs. Soon his chest will balloon, swelling to a size that might begin to accommodate the love growing in his heart.

Ashton nods as he pulls away, licking around his mouth where Luke’s stubble has irritated his skin. He takes a deep, shaky breath as he holds the base of his cock and slides the tip of it over Luke’s hole, matting the hair there with precome and lube. Luke sighs at the feeling, relief washing over him in waves, hand slipping loose around his own dick.

“Love you,” Ashton whispers as be pushes inside of Luke, hole opening easy for him. Ashton feels the pulse of Luke’s body around him as he continues to press forward until he’s all the way inside, balls squashed to the curve of Luke’s ass and his own thighs. He sucks in a breath as he stops, hands settling on Luke’s hips. Luke feels so tight and warm and easy, clenching around him like he’s trying to figure him out all over again. Hit with the sudden urge to kiss him, Ashton folds himself over Luke, and kisses him as soon as he can reach. 

Luke moans into the kiss, content with Ashton settled inside of him. He likes it so much, he frees both his arms and wraps them around Ashton’s neck, keep him close, and brings his legs up, trapping him with his thighs and hooking his ankles together at the small of his back. He only allows Ashton to pull back an inch, lips red and quivering so close to his, Ashton’s short, quick breaths hitting the back of his throat and drying it out.

“You okay?” Ashton asks, breath sticking to the spit on Luke’s lips. He nods, so Ashton pulls back and basks in the satisfaction at the sound of the tiny gasp Luke emits, eyebrows coming together in the centre.

“Please,” Luke says, not really thinking. “Please, just—”

Ashton braces himself on his forearms and rests his forehead against Luke’s. “Can you open your eyes for me?” he asks gently as he slowly thrusts forward, blowing Luke’s eyes wide anyway. “Wanna see your eyes,” he continues, mindless, pausing for a moment before doing it again, harder, and Luke blinks madly up at him in a feeble attempt to keep his eyes open. “Got such beautiful fucking eyes, Luke.”

The blush hasn’t properly set in Luke’s skin when Ashton begins rocking into him, slow and calculated, tense in a way that he might be holding himself back. If Ashton wants to drag this out for as long as he wants, then Luke will let him, shuffling his legs slightly as his heels slip on the damp dip of Ashton’s back.  Ashton kisses him all the while, starting steady and firm before descending into the sloppy and wet mess that Luke dictates, tongue curling snuggly around Ashton’s.

In his head, Luke’s thoughts are fleeting. He doesn’t want to think about anything but the drag of his hard cock caught between their stomachs and the still-weird feel of Ashton’s dick stretching out his hole. He imagines what the sight might look like from above, his larger body completely encasing Ashton’s with his long limbs, clinging onto him so tight they might just meld into the same person if he’s not careful. Any picture in his mind dissolves when Ashton catches his prostate, sending his back arching and his teeth sinking into the curve of Ashton’s shoulder where he’s hidden his face.

“Fuck,” he moans, unhooking his arms from around Ashton’s neck and sliding his palms over his sweat-slick back. He can feel his cock leaking all over his stomach, and wonders if Ashton’s is doing the same inside of him. “Please, please,” he whines, but he’s not really sure what he’s asking for. “Fuck, please.”

“Good boy.” Ashton lifts his head and stares down at Luke as his breath hitches. “Good boy,” he repeats, moving his hips faster, fucking him harder. “That’s it.”

Luke moans high and embarrassing, ankles unhooking and legs falling open heavily on either side of Ashton.

“Do you like that?”

“Yeah,” Luke breathes, not entirely sure what Ashton is referring to, not paying much attention. “Love it.”

Smiling and taking advantage of the freedom Luke has begun to afford him, Ashton pushes himself all the way back up, body not perpendicular to Luke’s. Luke is fucked out and boneless before him, clumps of curly hair sticking to his sweaty skin, a deep red raising in his skin as he slides a hand over his chest, rubbing hard at his nipples. His hand begins to slip lower as Ashton continues watching him, fucking in lazily, eventually beginning to pull the skin back and forth over his cock, thumb rubbing fast over the shiny head. He’s so close his face has begun to pinch tight, tongue caught dangerously between his teeth.

“Come on, Luke,” Ashton chokes, smoothing his palms over Luke’s thighs, forcing them wider. “Come on, baby.”

Ashton watches Luke’s cock kick hard in his hand, come cascading down over his fingers and clinging to the coarse hairs of his pubes. He barely makes a sound throughout, just a few quiet gasps that jump with his chest and a long, shuddery exhale that sends his head sinking into the pillow.

Ashton doesn’t even realise he’s stopped to watch until Luke clenches around him, until he’s whispering, “Don’t stop,” light and airy. “Please don’t stop fucking me,” he says a little louder, a little more urgent, and lifts his hips to fuck himself back on Ashton’s cock.

So Ashton fucks him until it’s too much. When that comes, Luke shudders with oversensitivity and Ashton pulls out as slow as he can, cringing at the loud slurping sound of lube. Luke just lies there, loose, limp and open like a macabre gesture of surrender.

“C’mere,” he slurs.

Ashton climbs over Luke and sits back on his crotch, limp, wet dick twitching against his ass as he makes himself comfortable and wraps a hand around himself. Luke watches through half-lidded eyes, his stomach quivering beneath the drag of Ashton’s cock as he lazily rests his hands on his thighs, curling his fingers into the hard muscle. Under his breath, he encourages Ashton to come—come over his stomach, his chest, get it in his mouth if he wants.

“Fuck,” Ashton groans as he comes, automatically collapsing forward, his face nestling into the curve of Luke’s neck. “Love you,” he whispers, gasping. “Luke, I love—”

“Love you, too.”

*

A few days later, Luke has this dream.

It’s one of those weird, out of body dreams where he’s somewhere off to the side, standing in the wings watching an eighteen or nineteen-year-old version of himself jump around on stage. He feels fuzzy like a dream, like _he’s_ the dream, and everything else going on around him is real.

His younger self is having the time of his life on stage; long legs swinging, grabbing the microphone and strutting around the stage, occasionally going all the way over to the edge and singing directly at a bunch of fans in the crowd. His grin breaks so wide that he laughs into the mic before bouncing away to get right up in Michael’s face, then sprint to the other side to make faces at Calum during his solo. He’s having a good time. He’s having a one-man party. He’s having a party with his best mates. He’s having a party with everyone in the arena.

Soon his dream-self comes running off the stage towards him for the little lapse in time before the encore. He’s sweating and guzzling down water as Michael shouts in adrenaline-fuelled delirium that this is the best show ever. It might be, judging by all their happy, sweaty faces, and Luke wants a piece of it. He wants it so bad that he steps into the skin of his dream-self, and he’s almost knocked backwards by the surge of euphoria that’s pulsing through his bloodstream.

This is what it felt like. Every night.

How did he ever let anything come between himself and this feeling?  

It’s his abiding memory as he stirs awake in the early hours of the morning, the sun just beginning to rise. He grumbles as he rolls from his back onto his side to face Ashton, who’s also lying on his side, facing Luke, his hands in loose fits against the pillow. Like this, the tally tattoo on the side of Ashton’s wrist is perfectly in view, eclipsing everything else in Luke’s eyeline.

With a heavy hand, Luke reaches out to touch it, gently covering one of the tallies with the edge of his pinky finger. Something seizes in Luke’s heart. He chokes on nothing, everything in his dream ballooning up and bursting in his chest, and a weird rattling sound escapes him as he lets out a dry sob.

He doesn’t realise he’s crying until his tears begin to catch in his lashes, obscuring his vision. An ache is building around his eyes from the effort it’s taking to keep them focused on the blurry ink of Ashton’s skin, the familiar warmth no comfort at all. He’s so focused on crying quietly that he barely registers Ashton waking up and curling his free hand around Luke’s, gently moving it away so all the tally marks are uncovered again, one no longer hidden by his pinky.

“I’m sorry,” Luke says, voice watery in his throat. He slides clumsily into the space Ashton opens with his arms, burying his face into his neck. “I’m sorry,” he says again and again and again until it’s nothing but hiccupped sobbing.

Ashton strokes a hand through his hair, mouthing against his hairline, “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.”


	3. sew up the seams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> s'appenin again folks. just want to say i hope you enjoy the last chapter & thank you very much for reading!

For his birthday, Ashton’s family are coming to visit him.

Luke is not so selfish to want to deny Ashton time with his family, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t fall into a self-pitying silence as Ashton neatly folds clothes into the travel bag he’d first shown up with. It’s only for a few days, Ashton keeps saying to him, playing with his hair the way Luke likes as he waits on his Uber. Luke would drive him over, but he’s not really feeling up to getting dressed enough to go outside, content to just curl up on the couch in his boxers and t-shirt instead. Perching on the arm of the couch, Ashton doesn’t force or guilt-trip him, just continues to drag his fingers through his hair, musing it more than a restless sleep had done.

Most of Luke’s first day without Ashton passes quickly, but the night is long. He stays up late to avoid going to bed, eating his bodyweight in ice-cream and watching horror films, spooking himself into an uncomfortably alert state. It’s a dumb idea in the end, and he wants Ashton back even more by the time he can’t physically keep his eyes open anymore. He falls asleep on the couch, and wakes up again around noon, a sticky puddle of ice-cream sitting in the folds of his t-shirt where the tub has tipped. He groans, face scrunched; there’s melted ice-cream in his bellybutton.

Calum calls him later that afternoon. He wants to meet up and have drinks, but Luke doesn’t really feel like going out anywhere. As a compromise, Calum invites him over to his, but only on the condition that they both get absolutely hammered.

Luke’s up for that.

He arrives at Calum’s door a few hours later with a copious amount of alcohol and only a linger of doubt that this will not be like old times. His doubts are, like before, proven to be unfounded, with Calum pulling him in for a side hug the moment he opens the door to him. Luke’s chest meets Calum’s shoulder, and for a moment he’s winded, the breath knocked out of him and dancing up the back of Calum’s neck. They both laugh, glass bottles clinking between them in a plastic bag hanging from Luke’s wrist, and he knows it’s going to be a good night.

“Jesus Christ, bro, you could strip paint with that,” Calum complains with a shudder after he sips the first of Luke’s failed vodka and cokes. He’s bought the cheapest, most lethal-looking vodka he could find with the intention of having no recollection of doing so. “I’ll go up in flames if I have a fag after drinking that.”

“Give up the fags then,” Luke bites, holding Calum’s gaze for a second before ducking his head down to laugh.

They’ve set up camp in the living-room, a plethora of alcohol laid out on the coffee table on one side of them, and a speaker blaring out Lil Wayne on the other. They’re wedged up against each other, backs to the front of the couch, the rough denim of Luke’s jacket rubbing tight against Calum’s bare shoulder. He has to take it off eventually, his body steadily growing hotter with every drink that he clinks against Calum’s and guzzles down with a grimace. He thinks it’s his body’s way of telling him he’s not eighteen anymore.

Calum’s not eighteen anymore, either, but that doesn’t stop him snuggling into his shoulder. “Missed you so much, man,” he slurs, mouth hot and wet through the sleeve of Luke’s t-shirt. “Missed this.”

He has too, Luke tells him in a drunken mumble under the music, and it feels nice to finally admit it out loud. Both he and Calum are notorious for keeping things to themselves, and it’s one of the main reasons Luke’s always found writing music with Calum so easy. Everything they need to say comes out then.

Maybe that’s been his problem all this time.

Calum certainly has something to say when he sits up and curls his fingers into the front of Luke’s t-shirt a little while later. “Promise me you won’t be a cunt,” he says, and Luke winces, some of his chest hair pinched in Calum’s grip. “You can’t be an asshole, Luke. Not to Ashton.”

It’s not like Luke’s not been expecting it; he knew Calum was bound to say something. Luke’s a dented canister of toxic gas in these situations, one gentle nudge away from unleashing havoc. Most of his old girlfriends have runaway in time, but he knows things will be different with Ashton. Ashton’s been putting up with his shit for years, and there’s no way he could sense the poison in the air. Mercifully, he’s at the very least already aware of the consequences.

Luke is nothing but a ragdoll as he nods. “I won’t,” he says, oddly quiet for his drunken self.

Calum’s grip eases, but his eyes stay dark. “You better not,” he warns, and Luke feels a chill race down his back. Something must flicker in his eyes as Calum searches them, because he completely let’s go and falls back into his own space again after a moment. “It’s nuts, man. I always imagined you as the ‘pussy for my last meal on death row’ kinda guy.”

Luke cringes, knowing he’s probably said that at some point in his life, and rubs at his chest where it hurts.

“Sorry,” Calum says.

“S’alright,” Luke says, shrugging and reaching up to grab a bottle of whisky by the neck. He takes a sip then holds it out as a sort of peace offering which Calum accepts. Luke licks the weird, burning aftertaste from the insides of his cheeks. “So,” he begins, the stops to clear his throat. “Ashton mentioned you have some warm up gigs next month,” he says, steering the conversation away from him and Ashton. It feels weird talking about it with Calum, and he’s not entirely sure he wants any of the gory details. “That should be fun.”

Calum smiles around the bottle, rings clicking against the glass as he drums his fingers over the body. “Yep. Mikey’s coming over for a show,” Calum tells him, and something in him glows bright and blinding, emitting out and warming Luke from the inside.

He’s not the only one that misses Michael something awful.

“I take it you’ll be coming too,” Calum says, handing the bottle back to Luke.

Calum would assume that, wouldn’t he? It’s logical that Luke would want to go see his boyfriend’s band. Luke swallows down another mouthful as he nods, a buzz beginning to build in the back of his mind. The only issue is that he’s still not entirely sure if he could stand through a set of songs that could’ve easily have been his in another incarnation. Michael will be there, though, he reminds himself as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and that trumps almost everything right now. Michael’s like the last missing piece of the person he used to be. 

They drink together to the point Luke passes out where he’s slinked to the floor, and he wakes up early the next morning, still intoxicated and Calum’s solid form crushing him into the leg of the coffee table. He laughs at the memory of all the stupid places they’ve woken up drunk, then groans, trying to roll onto his back without evoking Calum’s hungover wrath. It doesn’t entirely work, so he compromises, half lying into Calum’s body and throwing an arm over his chest, cuddling into him like old times as his head continues to throb.

*

He’s on his own, plucking idly at his guitar in the living-room when he remembers.

There’s a weird, lingering pain behind his eyes from staying up the night before, and he can’t seem to stop yawning, a stiffness building in his jaw every time his mouth opens. Ashton called last night, desperate and horny, trying to keep quiet while Luke explained in excruciating detail how hard he was going to fuck him when he came home. He probably won’t, he’d thought afterwards, playing with the spunk on his stomach—he’ll probably just attach himself to Ashton like a limpet on a rock, and it’ that thought, that longing that keeps him up all night.

It catches him off guard when the realisation hits, sending his fingers slipping over the fretboard. He wraps his fist around the neck as he steadies himself, frowning and blinking at the muted television screen. It can’t be, he thinks, staring down at where his hands meet his guitar, but soon he finds them dancing along the strings, playing out a faintly familiar set of chords.

“I wrote it,” is the accusation he spits at Ashton the moment he comes through the door. He’s not mad, but he thinks he should be. “That song—the one you said I’d like—I wrote it. I wrote it, didn’t I?”

Standing innocuously in the middle of Luke’s living-room, Ashton drops his bag at his feet. “Nice to see you again, too, Luke,” he says, smiling, but it falters when Luke keeps his face placid. He sighs. “ _We_ wrote it, actually,” he explains taking a step closer to where Luke stands, arms crossed over his chest. “Come on, Luke, so I worked off some shitty song we did when we were kids. What’s the big deal?” he asks, lifting his hands to settle on Luke’s waist.

As much as Luke wants to, he doesn’t jerk away. “Because it was _mine_.”

“ _Ours_ ,” he corrects him, thumbs rubbing circles into his waist. “I don’t know what the problem is, Luke. You barely remember even writing it and I was going to credit you anyway.”

“No,” he says sharply, making Ashton freeze. “I don’t—I don’t want the fucking credit,” he says, finally taking a step back from Ashton. “I don’t want anything to do with your fucking band.” It’s a shit thing to say, and he regrets it immediately, but he’s too far gone with his protests to admit defeat now. He stalks off with his shoulders hunched into the garden, and drops himself down heavy on the grass. When he realises Ashton hasn’t followed—and for good reason—he thuds onto his back, covering his face to yell into his hands.

He yells until his lungs grow weary from the strain and his throat starts to ache. He sinks into the grass, praying for it to swallow him whole as the sun beats down on him. His head hurts from the yelling and the rays, blood pulsing loud in his temple, so he screws his eyes shut against the sun and tries to concentrate on the cool feel of the earth where his fingers are digging in.

He’s an arsehole, so he lets Ashton come to him.

“I should’ve asked,” Ashton’s voice cuts through him suddenly, causing his eyes to snap open and his body to snap up. “I should’ve asked if I could use it. I’m sorry,” he says, standing in the middle of Luke’s garden, blocking some of the sun from getting in his eyes. He cuts a dark figure, and Luke can’t really see his eyes, but he knows he means it. He can hear it in his voice.

“I know,” he concedes quietly, turning his head away to look at the grass. He skims his fingers along the tops of the blades, disturbing them slightly. “Sorry I snapped at you,” he says, still not looking. “I don’t actually care if you use it. I just—I don’t know.”

Luke almost jumps out of his skin when he feels Ashton’s body against his, a large hand curling around his knee. “We wrote it after doing one of those Ustream things,” Ashton tells him, swiping his thumb over the hem of his jeans. “You didn’t want to go home so we stayed in my basement to write some songs.”

Skin burning under Ashton’s hand, Luke closes his eyes and thinks about being fifteen again, about them sporting identical, equally as tragic fringes as Ashton made weird noises with his mouth, trying to communicate how he wanted the guitar part to sound. Luke remembers staring at him blankly before snorting, face pressed into the scrap of paper he’s been writing down lyrics on. It’s still mostly Calum’s thing at this point, and both Ashton and Luke are a little lost without his guidance, but they persevere. It’s not great, and for the most part nothing they ever do together will be, but it’s something.

“I found the lyrics and other stuff when mum made me go through some old shit she was wanting to throw out,” Ashton continues, his hand now resting on the inside of Luke’s thigh. “It sorta all came back to me, y’know? I knew I had to use it.”

Luke slips his fingers into the spaces between Ashton’s. His eyes flick up to meet Ashton’s, then he leans in, hiding his face in the crook of his neck. “Missed you,” he mumbles, and he thinks that might be it; he’s just a bit cranky because he’s been without him for the past week. He turns his head up for Ashton to press a kiss to his forehead. “What a shit first fight.”

“Would you rather—” Ashton says, wriggling his arm free to hook around Luke’s neck, “—I take you down?”

Caught in a headlock, Luke shouts bloody murder as Ashton drags him down, arm firm against the front of his throat. He struggles until he’s red in the face, long legs kicking out and hands scrambling at Ashton’s arms in a futile attempt to get him off. When he gives up, Ashton lets him go, laughing, keeping one arm curled loosely around him as they collapse back together. Luke huffs as he rolls onto his front, stomach exposed to the grass where his t-shirt has hiked up in the ruckus.

Ashton can’t help himself from reaching over and running a finger over the slither of Luke’s lower back that glows white against his dark t-shirt in the sun.

“I missed you, too, by the way,” he says, slipping his hand up the back of his t-shirt. “I missed you a lot.”

Later, Ashton shows him just how much he misses him with his hand and mouth around his dick, the wrapping paper from the hideously expensive YSL t-shirt Luke had gotten him for his birthday crumpling beneath his knees. Luke comes down his throat with a shudder and a weak apology, promising to return the favour when he gets his breath back—and he does, his fingers firmly splayed over Ashton’s ass as he lets him fuck his mouth until he comes too. 

Coming down off the high ride of emotions, Luke slumps against Ashton as they watch television afterwards, cuddling up together on the couch. Ashton’s body is warm and comforting, a safety blanket around Luke as he laughs away at the cartoon on screen.

*

Three days before his birthday, Luke decides he wants to go home for it. As per usual, he doesn’t put much thought into it, but something about the way Ashton keeps talking about his mum, how much fun he’d had with his siblings, makes Luke want to go home. He books the flights on a whim, only telling after Ashton after he’s rattled downstairs, laptop in his hands. He’s only going for a few days, and he knows he’ll spend most of his time fucked up and disorientated from the jetlag, but it’ll be worth it. Ashton thinks it’s a great idea, giving Luke a quick kiss on the shoulder as he prods at the screen, weirdly excited.

His mum is so ecstatic that she almost cries on the phone when he tells her he’s coming home for a few days. Luke almost cries in return, but he stops when he hears Ashton call his name, asking if everything is alright. “She’s buzzing to have me home,” Luke tells him, resting his feet up on Ashton’s lap. “Did you—did you, y’know, tell your mum anything about—”

“Us?” Ashton supplies, tracing his finger up the bridge of Luke’s foot. He shakes his head, and this isn’t wildly surprising. Luke’s been thinking about it, even before he booked the tickets, because he knows he won’t be able to hide it from his mum of all people. Maybe this time he won’t say anything, but the next time he will. Maybe he’ll come out to her and keep his relationship with Ashton to himself for now. “I told her we were talking again, though,” Ashton adds belatedly, settling his hands flat over Luke’s ankles. “She said that was good to hear.”

Ashton helps him pack for his trip, occasionally pausing to pick something out of Luke’s suitcase, remind him that it’s _actually_ his and he would like it to come back to LA with him. Luke sighs dramatically as he promises to bring everything back, then pings a pair of boxer briefs at Ashton’s head, teasingly asking him who they belong to. They don’t really have time for it, but they end up play-wrestling on the bed, surrounded by a mess of clothes, and Luke laughs so hard that his sides hurt. As he’s lying there, clutching at where it hurts, Ashton asks him if he wants his birthday present now or when he comes back, face hovering mere inches above his.

“After,” he mumbles, pulling Ashton down for a sloppy kiss and wrapping his legs around him to keep him in place.

When it comes time to go to the airport, Ashton insists on taking him. On the outside, Luke is all slouchy and comfy, sweatpants barely clinging to his waist and old hoodie folding up around him as he snuggles into the car window. On the inside, his heart goes like a kettledrum. It’s an early flight, and neither of them are really awake, which turns out to be a bit of a blessing because the goodbye only really hits Luke after he’s pulled his suitcase out of the back of his car. He can’t kiss Ashton goodbye, so he pulls him in for a tight hug instead, pressing a sneaky kiss to the curve of his shoulder when he’s certain no one is looking.

“Love you,” Ashton says, letting his hand catch in the fabric of Luke’s t-shirt, hidden beneath his open hoodie. “See you soon.”

Luke can’t help but mouth it back.

*

Alone in the bedroom that used to be his, Luke can’t sleep. He tosses and turns, hunger paining his stomach and a stiffness leftover in his limbs from the hours cramped in a plane or waiting at the airport. Both his parents are asleep, and he really doesn’t want to wake them, but he can’t stay put any longer, he decides, rolling out of bed and trampling his way out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. The light is sore on his tired eyes as he flicks it on, and he stands dazed for a moment, eyes clenching shut as he holds the wall for balance, the fleeting numbness plaguing his legs threatening to send him toppling over.

A text from Ashton curtails his search for bread, his phone buzzing in the pocket of the sweatpants he’s still not taken off. He squints down at his phone and laughs when he reads the message from Ashton, cheekily asking if the flight has killed him, accompanied by a small skull and crossbones emoji. He sends him back a dramatic _yes_ with a sad face. Ashton coyly tells him that he’ll make everything all better when he comes back, and a giddy shiver races up Luke’s spine as to what that might mean.

He’s halfway through his toast and vegemite when he hears footsteps. “It’s only me,” his mum says as she shuffles into the kitchen in her pyjamas, eyes gleaming at the sight of her son. “Can’t sleep?” she asks, pulling out a chair beside him. He nods, mouth still full. “Me neither. Not with my baby back. Too excited,” she says with a small laugh, clasping her hands on the table.

Luke smiles at her as he continues to chew and swallow.

“I remember when you used to hate your curls,” she says, reaching out to tuck some of his hair behind his ear. “Looked like a perfect little cherub, so you did. I never understood why you wanted to straighten it.”

Luke shrugs.

“Dunno.” He pops a few of his finger into his mouth, sucking off the butter that’s melted down his fingers. He half waits for her to scold him, but when she doesn’t, he uses the damp tips of his fingers to pick up the crumbs on his plate. “Wasn’t cool, I guess.”

She makes a small noise in acknowledgement as she watches him eat as though he’s been starving. If there’s one thing about being home, it’s that he’ll get properly fed until he’s fit to burst. He actually can’t wait to see what they’re going to have for dinner each night, never mind what he’s going to get for his birthday. When he’s done with his toast, his mum stands to make them a cup of tea and takes out the biscuit tin and sets it down on the table. She’s barely pulled her hand away by the time he’s pulling off the lid and searching out the chocolate and mint ones that are left.

Two biscuits later, his mum pipes up, “So, you’ve been hanging out with Calum and Ashton again?”

“What?” Luke says, mouth hovering over a biscuit.

“I know I shouldn’t be paying attention to gossip,” she says, hands flapping dismissively, “but Joy said there’d been pictures online of the three of you and of course I had to look because I don’t get a peep out of you.” Luke slinks back, feeling an inevitable lecture coming on. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Luke. I’m your mother; it’s my job to worry about you.”

She’s giving him this look now, and it’s making his insides curl. He wants to tell her about Ashton. He wants to tell her that there’s no need to worry—he has someone that loves him, someone that picks him up when he’s down and gives him a kick up the arse when he needs it. He wants to tell her, but the words choke him and he’s left blinking back tears as he stares into his half-empty mug.

“What’s wrong?” she asks gently.

“Ashton,” he says quietly, almost whispering. “He’s—well, he’s been living with me.” Luke’s eyes flick up to see the pleasant surprise on his mum’s face. His breath hitches slightly as he goes to speak again. “But—but it’s not just that. We’re—no. He’s. He’s—he’s my—” _Boyfriend_. He can’t say it, so he looks at his mum, eyes begging for her to understand.

She does. She always does.

“Oh,” she breathes, mouth curving in surprise. She’s gone stiff against the back of the chair, eyes staring down at the table. “Oh, sweetheart,” she says, finally moving, her hand coming to rest on the fist he’s got tightly clenched on the table. “I—I had no idea. How—how long have you…?”

“A while.” It comes out wobbly and quiet, but his mum doesn’t push him for specifics. He looks up at her and swallows hard, slowly turning his hand around so she can hold and squeeze it properly.

“At least it’s a boy I don’t need to worry about,” his mum says. It sounds a little forced, and her smile looks about the same, but Luke smiles back anyway because she’s right. She doesn’t need to worry about Ashton—he’ll do right by anyone before he ever does them any wrong. “Come here,” she says, lifting up her arms and inviting him to stand up and lean over to hug her. He’s far too big to be climbing into her lap, but burying his face in her soft, greying curls is enough to make his heart settle. “I love you.”

She doesn’t mention it again, not until they’re dropping him off at the airport a few days later. He’s sort of folded himself over her as they hug and she tells him to take care of himself and say hello to Ashton for her. He pulls back at gives her a watery smile, her acceptance even more of a relief than the forgiveness he’d granted himself weeks ago.

*

Luke spends the flight home with his body stuck on a low hum, something both giddy and terrifying about his mum now knowing about him and Ashton keeping him from sleeping. Naturally, a smidgen of doubt appears at the very forefront of his mind the closer he gets to LA, the realisation that he’s basically outed Ashton to his mum making his stomach turn a little. Of course he’d begged her not to tell anyone—he’s not ready for everyone to know, and if Ashton hadn’t even told his own mother, then there was no way he’d want Luke blabbing about it. Eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, Luke imagines he knows where Ashton is as he looks out the window of the plane, the world distant and tiny beneath him. He imagines Ashton’s face when he sees him again, and how quickly that grin will disappear when he tells him he’s practically betrayed him.

“What are you talking about?” is Ashton’s actual reaction, holding Luke at arm’s length as his head droops in shame. Ashton had almost lifted him off the ground in a surge of happiness, but now he’s staring up at Luke curiously, trying to compute his mumbled apology. “I wasn’t expecting you to lie to your mum, Luke,” he says, and Luke’s eyes snap up. There’s a weird quake of laughter running through Ashton as he pulls Luke back to his chest, hands slipping down to link at the small of his back. “What did I tell you about getting all worked up over nothing, huh?” he’s saying, nuzzling into Luke’s week-old beard. “I don’t mind.”

Luke’s glad everything is alright because now he can look Ashton properly in the eye again before he kisses him, wrapping his own arms around his neck and keeping him close.

It doesn’t last long. Ashton’s too excited to show Luke his birthday present. Luke lets himself be dragged upstairs, half convinced that Ashton’s just going to give him a good fucking for being away for so long. As much as he would appreciate that, he has just spent the best part of an entire day on a plane, and is therefore not in the freshest, sexiest state. Ashton telling him to kneel in the centre of the bed with his eyes shut, a playful edge creeping into his voice, doesn’t exactly let Luke dismiss the idea of sex out of hand. He does as he’s told, anyway.

Luke really can’t help the hitch in his breath when he feels the bed dip and the heat of Ashton’s body against his back. “Happy birthday, baby,” Ashton says in his ear, and then Luke’s his hands coming around the front of his face before moving back. It’s only then that he feels the cold drag of a chain over the sides of his neck and the bump of a pendant against his chest that he knows exactly what it is. Ashton kisses the shell of his ear. “Open,” he urges, moving around his body to sit in front of him.

Luke reaches up to catch the pendant in his fingers before he looks. It’s a guitar. Black and gold and fiddly in his suddenly sweaty grip. He runs the pad of his finger over the tiny neck, feeling the detail of the individual strings better than he can see it. It’s lovely. Luke loves it.

Sort of unsure as to what to do, he drops the necklace back against his chest and reaches out to run his hands back over Ashton’s ribcage, then down, grasping at his waist before pulling him into his body. Ashton meets him with a surprised exhale, but he’s smiling, skin glowing, the beat in his chest drumming all the way through Luke, keeping his tired mind from shutting off and crashing down.

“Do you like it?” Ashton asks, hands pushing past the baggy material of Luke’s sweatpants and dipping in below the waistband. He grabs at Luke’s ass, forcing him up, forcing him to fall into and on top of him.

One of Luke’s leg’s pushes down between Ashton’s thighs, spreading them apart. He stays hovering above him for a moment, hair falling down and tickling Ashton’s face where he lies there, still grinning. He shifts, easing his entire body weight onto Ashton, the rough waist of Ashton’s jeans rubbing uncomfortably against his interested cock. Ashton can tell, because his grip on his ass tightens before he leans up to finally press their lips together, neck straining off the pillow until Luke relieves him by leaning down.

It might be the jetlag, but everything goes a little fuzzy in Luke’s head. His mouth is slack against Ashton’s, moving but without purpose. His hips feel too stiff and heavy to move.

“Luke?” Ashton breathes. His own hips are bucking back and forth, his hands trying to encourage Luke into a rhythm. “Luke, are you…?”

Luke’s entire body jerks like he’s just caught himself from falling over into the abyss of sleep. It’s a sharp movement, and Ashton groans when Luke’s forehead cracks against his nose, sending his own head tilting back. He covers his face as Luke apologises, his voice muggy and slow as he tries to climb off Ashton.

“Hey, where are you going?” Ashton says, catching Luke around the hips.

Luke mumbles something half-heartedly, but a yawn cuts right through it, so Ashton shushes him and kisses the top of his head where it rests by his shoulder. He slides his arms up, wrapping around the top of Luke’s back, stroking his thumb back and forth over the ridges of his ribcage. Like this, new necklace caught between their chests, Luke falls into the sleep his body craves.

*

For a good five minutes, Luke stands outside of Brian’s apartment, quietly working up the courage to knock on the door. There’s a damp streak of sweat down the front of his jeans where he keeps on wiping his hands every time he thinks he might knock, and he can feel himself sway gently on the spot as he runs through all the scenarios of how this might play out in his head. As if it might help, he’s even worn Ashton’s dumb Bruce Springsteen shirt because he knows Brian loves him so much, and maybe he’ll be too distracted by it to ask Luke what he’s been up to all this time.

Two days ago, Luke had called Brian to ask him if he wanted to meet up and talk music. He hadn’t picked up the first time, and Luke had sulked because he’s stupid and irrational like that. Not an hour later, Brian had called him back, apologising for not getting in touch sooner, telling him how nice it was to hear from him again. Brian had agreed easily to meeting up with him, suggesting they meet at his for no other reason than he’d just bought a sick record player earlier that week. He might have wanted to, but Brian doesn’t ask for any reason behind his sudden urge to take him up on an old offer, and for that Luke was eternally thankful.

So that’s why he’s here, knuckles hovering over the paintwork of Brian’s front door, the urge to run away not nearly as strong as the one to actually start acting like he’s a musician again. It’s that very thought that sends a jolt of confidence bursting through him, bringing his knuckles down heavy on the door.

 When Brian pulls the door open, he’s exactly the way Luke remembers him.

“I’m not letting you borrow my ID,” Brian says, face stern, then breaks out into a grin. “Nice to see you, lil bro.”

The force with which Brian yanks Luke forward almost sends them both tumbling over, Luke hitting his body with a firm smack as he stumbles over the threshold. Luke’s own embrace is loose, but he smiles over Brian’s shoulder, staring into the bowels of his cluttered apartment as Brian continues to squeeze him around the middle. They stay like this until Luke delivers two firm smacks to Brian’s back and gently peels himself away, needing to breathe.

“How’s it been?” Brian says as he places a glass of juice down in front of Luke. He offered him a proper drink, but Luke’s driving and making dinner tonight; he only divulges one of these pieces of information to Brian. “’S been, what, a year?” he adds, and a small bubble of guilt forms and pops in Luke’s throat.

Luke could lie. Brian can’t see through his bullshit as well as Ashton or Calum or Michael can, but he thinks he owes him the truth. Maybe not the whole truth, but the truth nonetheless.

“Was a bit rough for a while there, man,” Luke says, honesty slipping out easily. “Totally fucking lost it, but I’m—I’m doing good now.” It’s a slight understatement, but Luke’s lips quirk into a smile when he realises that he is genuinely happy now. Images of Ashton flicker across his mind, just smiling at him, kissing him goodbye that morning. Luke licks his lips as though he could still taste him. “You?” he asks quickly, grabbing for his glass and nodding along as Brian starts blabbering away happily as always, the occasional cruel joke making Luke splutter and choke.

They don’t actually talk much about music—it’s more reminiscing than anything else, especially once Brian has gotten over his fear of being rude and cracks himself open a can of beer. Luke sort of wants one, too, just to ease the slight tension curled up in his gut, and he’s got this whole plan about getting an Uber home and picking his car up the next day ready when Ashton texts him, asking when he’s going to be home.

“You breaking hearts again, Hemmings?” Brian says, craning his neck to look at Luke’s phone as he texts back a simple _soon x_.

Luke lets his mouth hang ajar for a moment, not quite sure what to say. “Something like that,” he says, word rotten and sticky in his mouth, painfully weighing down his jaw. “I actually—I think I better go now,” he says quickly, making Brian’s face fall.

Despite his disappointment at Luke’s premature exit, they make plans to meet up again, and Luke promises that he’ll bring his guitar next time, just after he’s done restringing it. He needs to restring his guitar. The thought distorts his mind for a moment, a shiver crawling down the side of his neck as if a broken string had just cracked past it. He only shakes himself out of it when Brian’s hand comes down on his arm, encouraging and pulling him into another hug.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Brian says, but Luke feels like one in his own skin on the way home. It’s weird and disorientating, clinging to him like a ghost on his back.

Ashton is home when he gets there, standing in the kitchen over a pot. “I was starving so I decided to start—”

Luke drops his car keys on the counter. The noise is so abrupt it forces Ashton to quieten and look up from whatever it is he’s stirring.

“I’m gonna be good,” Luke tells him. His legs feel a little shaky, so he presses his hands flat against the counter to balance himself.

“Good?” Ashton questions, eyebrows raised. He looks only mildly concerned, but concerned enough to lower the heat and abandon the pot in favour of walking around the kitchen island to rub a hand up Luke’s back. “Are you alright?”

Shoulders hunched, Luke’s head hangs low as he feels the warmth of Ashton’s palm sink through his t-shirt into his skin. He barely turns back to look at Ashton. “I’m gonna be good,” he repeats, but it comes out slightly smaller, less sure, because there’s no way Luke can be certain whether he’s going to fuck up everything spectacularly or not. “I’m going to try and be good,” he eventually amends, and this time he can look Ashton in the eye. “Like, really fucking hard.”

Ashton still looks slightly puzzled, but he slowly begins to circle his arms around Luke’s waist from the side. “Alright,” he says, amused. His hands link together and pull Luke towards him, forcing him off the counter and heavy into Ashton’s hold. “But you’re always a good boy for me,” he says low in Luke’s ear, who almost whines in frustration because that’s not what he means.

It’s not what he means, but he ends up on his knees in front of Ashton anyway, squashed into the small space between the couch and coffee table. He’s comfortable with Ashton’s cock in his mouth by now, especially when Ashton just sits there and lets him do whatever he wants, occasionally muttering to himself and running his fingers through the looser waves of Luke’s hair. His cheeks feel like they’re about to cave in as he sucks, his tongue as eager as always to rub against the bottom of his cock. His own cock his hot and heavy in his boxers, but he wants this to be about Ashton, so he doesn’t touch. He’ll only touch if Ashton tells him to. 

He doesn’t pull off when Ashton comes, even though he gives him fair warning. He wants to, and not just because he kind of likes the way it makes him feel inside when Ashton watches him through hooded eyes, looking at him like he’s the only thing that’s ever really mattered. Luke knows that’s not true, but he lets the thought consume him as he closes his eyes and continues to suck on the head of Ashton’s cock, his hand still gently moving up and down as his hips continue to tick.

“Probably need to order something in now,” Ashton laughs, rolling his head over the back of the couch to look towards the kitchen as Luke’s hands tuck his cock back into his boxers.

Luke hums, lazily resting his cheek on Ashton’s knee.

Like he subconsciously knows, Ashton stays close to Luke for the entire night, keeping a lingering hand near his thigh or shoulder, absentmindedly twirling a strand of his hair by his neck as they watch television. Luke revels in it, tucking himself up into Ashton as far as he can go, as if soon he’ll be able to crawl under his skin and make home there. For now, Ashton’s hand slipping up the back of his t-shirt, pressing his body close, will have to do.

“How’d it go with Brian?” Ashton asks during an advert.

“Good,” Luke says, readjusting his head slightly where it rests on Ashton’s chest. “I mean, I think we could do something good together, me and him. We’ve been talking about it for years,” he says, which isn’t entirely true, but the ideas been floating around between them forever. Today was more about seeing if they could still stand being in the same room as each other. “I can’t wait to—to just do something again, y’know?”

“’S pretty shit doing nothing,” Ashton agrees. He hadn’t had a contingency plan when Luke decided he didn’t want to do it anymore. Continuing as a three-piece wasn’t ever an option. He’d spent a good solid six months doing nothing in particular before Calum suggested they actually do something with the hours they spent jamming without Luke and Michael. “Can’t wait to hear what you two come up with.”

“If Brian has his way, I think we’ll end up a Tom Petty tribute band,” Luke says, making Ashton laugh beneath him. The vibrations bounce around like energy, warming him up and settling him down. “Should be fun, though. I miss it. I miss being on stage,” he admits quietly.

“Two lead singers, though, how’s that going to work,” Ashton teases, squeezing on Luke’s waist.

“Well, I’m a lot fucking bigger than him,” Luke says, “so if it comes down to a fight…only one winner there.”

“I’d pay to see that,” Ashton says with a light chuckle disturbing his voice. “You are coming to the show, right?” Ashton asks as he strokes his fingers through Luke’s hair. He’s nestled himself in the crook of Ashton’s neck now, his earlier exploits tiring him out. “Because, I mean—you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I know you’re still a bit…weird about this.”

Luke makes a small noise of protestation. “’Course I’m gonna come,” he mumbles, reinforcing it slightly by tightening the arm he’s got draped over Ashton’s chest, fingers slotting into the space between his ribs. It might not be the most highly anticipated night of his life, but he’s not going to let his own jealousy get in the way. He’s not _that_ selfish.

Plus, something about being with Ashton makes him want to be a better person—to be _good_ —and he can’t quite put his finger on why.

*

The night before the first gig, Luke folds himself over Ashton and fucks the nerves out of him until he comes. He’s nervous on Ashton’s behalf, too, so he just sort of thrusts into him, crying out and kissing along the line of Ashton’s shoulder as Ashton tells him to go harder. There’s something painfully domineering in the way Ashton speaks to him during sex that Luke is beginning to think he really likes, really wants to hear. Despite his best efforts to keep going, he’s coming and gasping before Ashton, but he doesn’t stop fucking him. Instead he continues to grind into Ashton as he reaches down to awkwardly jerk his cock until he comes and clenches down around him.

He’s still weirdly skittish the next morning, and Luke is still hyperaware of the tension radiating off him even after he’s sucked him off and cuddled him close, patting down his hair and telling him he’s going to be great. He spends most of the morning drumming his fingers against the counter in front of him, an imaginary drumkit surrounding him where he sits. Luke leaves him to it in the end, remembering that even after years of gigging, it was still possible to suffer from nerves and rust. The worst that could happen is that they completely humiliate themselves, and Luke very much doubted that was going to happen. Ashton would liven up soon, he convinces himself, watching his withdrawn behaviour with a touch more curiosity that perhaps is necessary.   

Ashton has a string of interviews and a soundcheck to do before the show, so he leaves not long after they both push their breakfast around on their plate. Luke makes sure to catch him firmly around the waist before he goes, pressing one, two, three reassuring kisses to his lips before cradling his face in his hands and tilting their foreheads together. “Everything’ll be fine,” he says, and the certainty in his voice surprises the both of them. “You’ll be great.” And with that, Luke kisses him again and sends him out the door, his stomach churning like he’d just stolen the butterflies straight out of Ashton.

*

The moment Luke spots someone he recognises, he wants to go home. He can hear them—no, he can feel them talking about him behind his back, the insidious nature of their gossip fizzing holes into the back of his head as he loiters near the bar, a glass in hand while his other fiddles with the little guitar hanging from his necklace. He could go backstage if he really wanted to; it be easy enough to text Ashton and get him to save him from the embarrassment of facing up to people he thought were his friends. He decides against it, though. He’s done enough running away to last a lifetime.

Michael’s going to be here, too, he reminds himself, and he’ll gladly elbow everyone out of the way to be the first to get to him.

He’s on his second beer of the evening when Brian comes bounding into save him, his eyes glittering on sight of all the pretty girls beginning to gather around. Luke shakes his head as Brian bobs around happily like a magpie in a jewellery store, standing on the very edge of the floor as the opening act begins strumming through a few downbeat tracks.

The venue is fairly big—nothing compared to the places Luke played at the peak of his powers, but sizeable nevertheless. The stage is small, though, dwarfed by the roped-off seating area which Luke has a pass to tucked into the back pocket of his jeans. Over there is where all those familiar faces have gathered, and Luke would rather stay away. Only one breaks from the crowd, and it’s Mitchy, who greets him like a lover home from war, keeping an arm slung over his shoulder as he punches Brian’s arm and talks about something he’s not in the loop of. He welcomes them both over afterwards, but Brian declines before Luke even begins to formulate an excuse, and Luke’s suddenly very sure that he wants to make music with Brian. Tom Petty covers or not.

The floor is a little fuller by the time the second act comes on. They’re a little better than the first. Happier and bouncier. This, coupled with the alcohol in his system, has Luke dancing around a little more, body loosening and apprehension subsiding.  

Despite the noise of the band, he hears Michael before he sees him. He turns on his heels, stretching onto his tiptoes though he’s likely already the tallest person in the room, save for the security. He’s too busy looking in one direction that he misses the alert for hurricane Michael sweeping him away from the side, smacking into him with such a force that they both almost go flying into the wall.

“You fucker!” Michael is yelling in his ear, unabashed like they’ve never been apart. “Where the fuck have you been hiding?” Michael turns him in his arms and holds onto him tightly, and soon they’re seeing who can squeeze the life out of the other first. Just before he buries himself entirely into Michael’s neck, Luke catches sight of Crystal being dragged into an equally as excitable hug by Brian, who’s crooning happily to a song he doesn’t even know the words to. “You have no fucking clue how much I—”

“I know, man. I know,” Luke says, rubbing his hand up and down Michael’s back. Now Michael’s face is in his neck, and if Luke didn’t know any better, he’d think Michael’s getting a bit emotional. “Let me get you a drink,” he says, pulling away before this descends into something soppier. Michael seems to appreciate the distraction, smoothing a hand over his stubble and fixing the collar of his jacket before stepping back towards Crystal. They still fit together so nicely, Luke thinks, grinning stupidly as Brian overrides his offer of getting them drinks with his own.

“’S weird, isn’t it?” Michael says.

They’ve somewhat separated themselves off from everyone else, some sort of magnetism keeping them huddled together like children whispering secrets on the playground. Luke feels like a kid again, surrounded by his friends, blissfully ignorant and happy all at the same time.

“What is?” he asks.

Michael uses his beer to gesture towards the stage where a couple of guys are mucking around with cords and amps. “Ash and Cal doing their thing; us…down here watching them.”

Luke clinks his teeth against the rim of his glass, eyes focused on the weird purplish hue of the stage lights. Ashton’s drumkit glittering at the back of the stage, and Luke images him sitting somewhere beyond the mountain range of drums and cymbals, his heart thundering in his chest in nervous anticipation. He’ll be fine, Luke thinks quietly to himself. Ashton’s got that astute perseverance that’ll always get him through.

“Really fucking weird,” Luke says, then laughs, fogging up the top of the glass. He’s just buzzed enough that his emotions are beginning to mix, and it won’t be long before he’s shouting at the top of his lungs, garnering the attention his intoxicated self seems to crave more than anything. It’s probably about time he stopped. “It’ll be good, though.”

“Yeah, obviously,” he bites innocuously. “Wish I was up there with them, though,” he says, and Luke’s heart plummets before it springs back up again, knocking around wildly in the space behind his lungs.

“Same,” he agrees, nodding as his eyes slide shut. They’re barely closed when a roar rips through the club, the house lights dimming as the stage lights go up. Luke blinks his eyes open just as there’s a mass of bodies moving as one towards the stage, and he’s just about readjusted enough to watch some familiar and not so familiar faces spill across the tiny stage.

He can’t help it, but his gaze automatically gravitates towards Ashton, shunted to the back and off to the side. Despite the urge to push forward with everyone else, he stays with his elbows grazing the wall, becoming more of a fixture than a spectator. Michael and Crystal hang a little further forward while Brian has completely disappeared, the ghost of his presence quickly diluted with the one Calum fills the room with. It’s a little bizarre to see Calum stand where he once stood, right in the middle of the stage, and a small wave of jealousy washes over him before that too dissipates into nothing.

*

No more than half an hour later, Luke finds himself standing outside by a door marked EXIT, the sign buzzing so loudly that he half expects the bulb to shatter and rain down from above him as he waits for Ashton. Not two minutes after the moment the band had disappeared off stage, Luke received a text from Ashton telling him to meet him outside by the loading bay. For the first few minutes the cool air had been blissful and sobering, but now it was beginning to cling to the sweat on his skin, built up from an increasing level of dancing he’d found himself doing during the set.

He’s leaning against the wall when Ashton comes stepping out into the night air, sweaty skin of his bare arms gleaming in the artificial light. It takes him a moment to locate Luke, but when he does, he’s borrowing into his chest instantly, and Luke doesn’t care about the gross dampness that surrounds him or the rough drag of the wall against the back of his head. All he can really focus on is the hammering going on between their chests, but he’s not really sure which thump belongs to who.

“That was fucking sick,” Luke tells him. He’s got his arms wrapped around Ashton now, the sleeves of his denim jacket bunching up around his shoulders. “You were—you were great. All of you were great.”

Ashton says nothing, just surges upwards and presses his mouth to Luke’s.

Luke moans, his head smacking back against the wall, but he kisses back with his mouth open, the low drone of electricity loud in his ears. He’s largely still, head buzzing with a dull ache, so let’s Ashton lead with his tongue and his hands in his hair and his thigh forcing his legs apart. Just as Ashton is about to pull away, he leaves his tongue out, waiting for Luke to curl his own against it in their own special little greeting.

“Thanks,” he says, licking some spit from where it hangs on his bottom lip. “Calum was saying—” Ashton pauses to catch his breath a little. “Calum said we should get something to eat together, the four of us,” he tells him, running his hands through Luke’s hair and down his face, knee touch the wall from how far he’s wedged himself between Luke’s legs. “Do you want to?” he asks, leaning in to press a kiss over where Luke’s chain sits around his neck.

“Yeah,” Luke breathes, shivering from the cold brick and warm body surrounding him. “That sounds nice.”

Ashton grabs his hand as soon as he’s stepped away from him, muttering a small, “Come with me,” under his breath as they try to find a way back inside, the door Ashton came out of now locked.

They end up having to go around to the front of the venue, pushing past a flock of people leaving, most of whom want to stop and congratulate Ashton on his performance. Luke drops Ashton’s hand for the time being, hanging by the door until Ashton re-joins him, pressing a large, sweaty palm to the small of his back as they navigate their way back to the dressing room through a maze of dimly lit halls.

The room is cramped and the air is thick and warm. Calum is melting into a couch across the room next to a man Luke recognises as the keyboardist from on stage, but he jumps up as soon as he spots Ashton and Luke.

“What did you think?” he asks Luke. “And be honest because I know you’re biased,” he adds, flicking his eyes between them before Ashton stalks off to get a towel from the other side of the room.

“Epic, man,” Luke sends, receiving his second sweaty hug of the evening. He smiles down at the guy on the couch, but it comes out a little uneasy. There’s still a little part of him that feels like he’s been replaced, but he tries not to let it bother him too much. Tonight isn’t a night for that. “Nice to meet you, mate. Luke.” Luke stumbles out of Calum’s hold.

“Reiss,” he says, sliding forward on the couch and extending out a hand.

“Luke’s up for something to eat,” Ashton says from where he’s towelling the sweat from his hair. “One of you wanting to phone or grab Mikey?”

“I told him to stay behind,” Calum pipes up. “You don’t mind if we shoot afterwards?” he asks towards another figure that’s just entered the room carrying a ridiculously large bottle of water. Luke knows his name is Karim from a post of Ashton’s on Instagram he happened to scroll past a few days ago.

“Knock yourselves out. I’m off to my fucking bed,” Karim says, and Luke laughs, because he’s been there before.

While the band packs up their gear, Luke wonders back into the main hall of the venue, slipping out from the backstage and onto the stage. The entire room is empty but for where Michael and Crystal have invaded the VIP area, their hands playing idly together on top of the table they’re sat at. They don’t even notice him until he yelps, crouching down from where he’s jumped off the stage, the drop a little bigger than he’d anticipated. Crystal’s laughter rings louder than the insults Michael aims at him.

“Where’s Brian?” he asks them as he climbs over the rope, long legs swinging clumsily. He pulls up a chair next to the table, knee bumping against Michael’s, trying to crawl into his space again.

“Calling an Uber,” Crystal chimes in. “We’re going over to a friend’s place while you lot…” She doesn’t finish, just sort of throws her hands in the air like they’re about to run wild on the streets of LA. Luke very much doubts he could do that even if he wanted to.

Brian stumbles back a few minutes before Ashton and Calum do, looking significantly less bedraggled and exhausted than before. Luke almost springs up to give Ashton a hug, but he refrains, keeping himself seated as Ashton walks around the back of him, resting his hands on his shoulders as he leans forward to say hello to everyone.

“Right,” Michael says, smacking his hands down on the table. “Banding time.”

*

They end up at one of those 24-hour diners a few blocks away from the venue, all squished together in a booth by the window. A pink neon sign illuminates the space between them as they speak over each other, their voices and an overhead fan the only noise from out with the kitchen. Every so often the noise peaks as Calum makes a noise around his coffee mug as Michael leans over to pick chips from his plate with his already greasy fingers, and Luke laughs so hard his face scrunches and accidentally knocks his foot into Calum’s shin. Beside him, Ashton has slipped one of his arms behind his back, fingers finding their way beneath his t-shirt and stroking gently at his waist as he sucks happily on a milkshake.

“You are suck a dick,” Calum complains, curling an arm around his plate protectively as he eats. “Can’t wait ‘til you bugger off again,” he says, making Michael gasp in faux offence.

“How long are you staying for?” Ashton asks before Michael and Calum can continue bickering between themselves.

Michael puffs out his cheeks as he thinks, slyly grabbing for the chips on Luke’s plate this time. Ignoring Luke’s protests, he says, “A couple of days. C’s needing to visit family and that.”

Luke sort of slouches into Ashton as Calum begins to tease Michael over something, the fatigue beginning to hit. Ashton turns his head down to look at where he’s come to a rest on his shoulder, raising his eyebrows quizzingly. It’s only during a lull in Michael and Calum’s conversation that Luke remembers that Michael doesn’t know about them, so he sits up sharply and clears his throat, eyes jumping across the table as he looks for something to distract himself.

“Luke,” Ashton says gently.

Luke turns his head, humming as he tucks his hair behind his ears. Playing if off as nothing isn’t really helping, because now Michael has his eyes peeled in his direction, and Calum looks like he’s itching to take the piss out of him.

“Am I missing something?” Michael looks between the two of them, confused.

Luke gives Ashton a small nod.

It seems to take forever for Ashton’s hand to climb from his waist to his shoulder, and Luke watches Michael’s eyes follow the movement with slow realisation. His mouth forms the same small ‘o’ as his mum’s has done as Ashton begins to play with the ends of Luke’s hair by his neck. Luke tries to focus on Ashton’s thigh pressing against his under the table, but it’s difficult when he’s suddenly hit by a wave of nervous nausea.  

“We’re together,” Luke blurts because he really can’t stand it anymore. “Like in a gay way.”

A smile flickers across Michael’s face. “In a gay way?” he says back, not quite able to hide the teasing edge from his voice. “Dick on dick, that sort of thing?”

Luke groans as Ashton laughs and Calum announces that he’s no longer hungry, a horrible mental image now playing in his head. Despite Michael’s crassness, Luke feels so incredibly light in his chest that he has to curl his fingers around Ashton’s thigh just to make sure he doesn’t float off.

“That’s like, cool, though,” Michael says, dragging Calum’s plate in front of himself and beginning to shovel chips into his mouth. “Congratulations and all that. Now Cal’s the only sad, lonely bastard left.”

“Fuck you!” Calum grumps, crossing his arms over his chest as Ashton calls for him to cheer up.

Nothing feels real as Luke lets himself sink into Ashton’s embrace again, his head comfortably resting on his shoulder as Ashton brings a hand up to rub at his arm. It feels like a dream without the glow, like everything is finally starting to fall into place. He turns up his head at the thought, pressing a small kiss to the underside of Ashton’s chin before tucking his head back down again, smiling down at the little guitar pendant that’s slipped from behind his shirt and hangs freely before him, glinting in the dim light of the diner.

“Wait, we need to take a picture,” Ashton says before they’re about to leave, and asks the waitress if she he can take a photo of them all, handing over his phone.

She does, and it’s not brilliant, but it is. They’re all there, huddling together, their grins far too big for their faces.

*

That night, Luke wakes up with a pain in his palm. He sits up in the dark, Ashton’s arm sliding from his chest to his lap. The pain starts in a dream and slowly seeps into reality, burning through his skin like a cattle rod until he’s forced awake, breathing heavy through his nose and wrapping a hand tightly around his wrist to stop the pulsing ache. His face crumbles in agony and he whimpers when the pain flares up despite his best efforts, tears beginning to leak slowly from his eyes.

It’s not really there and he knows it, but having no source only makes it worse. Knowing it’s all in his head makes it unbearable.

Gritting his teeth, Luke begins to kick his way out of bed, but just as he’s freed his legs from the sheets, Ashton’s arms appear around his waist and pull him back. He moans out, words choked back, and fights against Ashton for a moment before conceding defeat, letting himself be pulled further and further into his chest.

“Do you remember—do you remember when I told you that I felt I needed to see you the night before I came, the night you hurt your hand?” Ashton says right in his ear, hot breath tickling his neck. “I knew that you needed me. I knew, babe. I just knew.”

Luke pants, not really understanding, but he’s so focused on Ashton that he doesn’t notice the pain slowly ebbing away from his palm. When he does, he fists his hand on the pillow, knuckles turning white in the dark, and lets out a sob of relief. He cranes his head back then, breath coming out in harsh bursts against Ashton’s cheek, and tries to look him in the eye, tries to say thank you without putting anymore strain on his lungs that continue to constrict tightly in his chest.

It takes him a while. It takes him so long that his eyelids are beginning to droop from exhaustion. “I love you,” he says, and the funny thing is, he thinks he always has. He can’t remember not loving Ashton in some capacity, and he thinks he always will.

Of that he’s very sure.

**Author's Note:**

> if you so wish, you can find me on tumblr [here](https://partycake.tumblr.com/) if you want to say hi and if you want to share this fic, it's [here](https://partycake.tumblr.com/post/161642963214/when-did-the-diamonds-leave-your-bones-ashtonluke).


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